So You're a Masochist: the Art of Sidekicking
by zooeypotter
Summary: If you reckon you're tough, funny, and attractive enough for the job – or if, like me, you'd very little choice in the matter – then this book is the stylish monochrome wardrobe to your Death Eater; the hair product to your Malfoy; the... must I go on?
1. Introduction

_Disclaimer: I do not, and have not, owned Harry Potter. I've simply taken some tweezers, pulled the characters out of the books, and let them have a little run around to see what happens._

_And so it begins...  
_

So You're a Masochist: Ron Weasley's Unabridged Guide to the Art of Sidekicking

By: Ronald B. Weasley (otherwise known as Ron, Bill's/Charlie's/Percy's/Fred and George's little brother, Harry Potter's best mate, Roonil Wazlib, 'That tall bloke with the red hair'…'Who, that one?'…'Yeah.'); Order of Merlin, First Class; Assistant Arse-Kicker to the Boy Who Lived.

Experiences, Life-Threatening Situations, and Really Bloody Annoying Commentary provided by the rash schemes and prophesied fate of Mr. Harry J. Potter (Order of Merlin, First Class; Chosen One; Boy Who Lived; Master of Death; _Witch Weekly_'s 'Sexiest Bachelor').

Spell Checking courtesy of Hermione Granger (Order of Merlin, First Class; Resident Genius) – yes, _thank you_, Hermione…can I get on with it now?

Hi.

Blimey, that was absolute rubbish, wasn't it? Let me give that another go. (Stop _laughing_, Harry!)

Hello, I'm Ron Weasley (if you couldn't tell by the lengthy bit above – unless you're like me, which means you probably skipped that part): maddeningly attractive, brilliant marks, lusted after by all the birds… Ha. (That sounds more like my brother, Bill – he landed a bleeding _Veela_, for Merlin's sake.) All the same, chances are you've heard of me. (I helped save the world recently, if that jogs your memory at all).

My mates are behind me right now – not in the figurative, 'we're your pillars of loving support, Ron' way, but a 'we're just going to have a good lurk over the back of your chair to see what you're up to', far more irritating sort of way.

I told them it was just a bit of paperwork. Hermione didn't believe me, of course, as she has brain cells.

As you've probably worked out from the title (located on the front, spine, and first page of the volume – all in large, easy-to-read print), this book is something of a how-to guide - specifically, on the ancient and noble art of being a sidekick. (I was originally going to call it 'So You've Got a Death Wish' but apparently a book on the 'training and taming of your new enchanted hamster' already nabbed that one.) Anyway, I was inspired to write this manual when, one day, I was really, really bored. (Charlie suggested it; I think he might've been kidding, but there you go). I reckon it's too late to back out at this point – I mean, I've already got out the parchment and everything, so I might as well stick with it.

What are my qualifications for instructing this delicate craft? In case you were wondering and/or live in a cave, I have many. Good ones, too. These include: being best mates with Harry Potter; breaking every Hogwarts rule short of murder and wearing non-school regulation footwear; being roommates with Harry Potter; tracking down a bunch of famous magical items and places (Chamber of Secrets, anyone?); camping with Harry Potter; ... oh, yeah, and helping take down You-Know-Who. That's one hell of a CV (if I do say so myself - which I just did, I heard me... as did the rest of the room, apparently).

Now that the introductions are out of the way, we can get on to more important stuff, like lunch – no, book, Ron, _book!_ Ahem.

Anyway, if you're reading this book (as opposed to, y'know, sitting on it or something), then you're probably related to me, got this as a crummy birthday gift (I'm genuinely sorry if this is true, I really am), are currently in History of Magic (and are thus bored to the end of your wits), or the best mate of a hero/savior of the world/Chosen One/chronic adrenaline whore.

If the last one applies to you, then congratulations, you've picked up the right book for the task (though it's apparently quite informative – according to Hermione, that is, seeing as she's the only one who has ever and will ever read it – _Hogwarts, a History_ doesn't really cover this sort of thing… I think). Also, you have my deepest sympathies.

_What d'you mean, Ron? We've had loads of fun _– zip it, Harry; I'm trying to write a bloody book!

See? Heroes aren't all what they're cracked up to be; sometimes they're a right pain in the – okay, okay! _Sorry_, Harry… diva.

Before I tell you what to expect – which _is_ kind of the reason I'm writing this book – I'm going to warn you about what you shouldn't. Specifically, don't get your hopes up for: a danger-free existence, a believable 'I haven't done anything, I promise' look, a semblance of a normal life, or instant (any) popularity with those of the female persuasion. (Ouch, I just got a smack for that one – _yes_, Hermione, I _do_ know you're a girl… Merlin).

That all may sound very glamorous and enticing (if you're completely dead from the neck up), but before you rush, wand blazing, into the rest of this introduction, you need to do some deep self-reflection. Think, is it at all likely that you would ever take issue with feeling a) insanely jealous; b) like a dunce; c) pain, lots of pain; d) impatient; or e) forgotten?

If you said 'yes', 'um, I guess so', groaned, or lied to yourself about any of the above, then I don't recommend signing up for the job. It's a lifetime commitment. Seriously, I can't get rid of the bloke now – he's _always_ around. _I live at your house, you git_ – shut it, Harry.

**WARNING:** **If you decide to completely disregard my above advice to plow forward with it and in the near future find yourself miserable and failing spectacularly, don't get hacked off with me; I did warn you.**

Moving on…

If you said 'no' with complete honesty, then well done: you've got the makings of a sidekick. Quickly: go brag to all your friends, your parents, your owl, that bloke at the fish and chips stand: today's the first day of the rest of your villain-vanquishing, corruption-crushing, evil-expunging, annoyingly alliterated life! I hope you're prepared… oh wait, that's my job, isn't it?

Now, this is no Divination class; you actually have to work at it. It helps if you're a laugh, though – I mean, you can't _just_ be absurdly good looking (_How'd _you_ get the job then?_ – Oi, Potter, you're running on my last nerve now, I mean it.) I suppose someone like Percy could do it, but who'd want to hang around him for an extended period of time? I didn't think so.

Oh yeah, and don't get me wrong; Harry and Hermione both have a decent sense of humor, but usually Harry's preoccupied with brooding or saving the world, and Hermione's too busy being… well, Hermione. (Another smack! This book's going to be the death of me.)

So, if you reckon you're tough, funny, and good-looking enough – or, like me, if you have very little choice in the matter – then this book is as much of a must-have item for you as a stylish monochrome wardrobe is for a Death Eater (after all, black _does_ go with everything… according to Ginny.)

In this book (and my brain), I've stuffed more tips and tricks of the trade than Malfoy has got hair products. All of which have been accumulated over my long career in sidekicking (not hair products, mind, I don't go for that sort of thing).

Likewise, as I'm a dreadful liar (for example, I've been known to call myself Stan Shunpike in crisis situations) and partially 'cause I just can't be fussed to make something up, the entire contents of this book will be drawn from a stockpile of my own experiences (not in calling myself Stan Shunpike, of course – believe me, _that_ doesn't require a book of instruction… perhaps a brief pamphlet).

In conclusion – er, sort of, as this is only the beginning of the book – my indispensable wisdom (stop bloody _laughing!_) should hopefully be applicable to your life in a useful way.

Actually, nah, I wouldn't wish what we had to do on anyone; _nobody_ should have to eat mushrooms for that long.

...Hermione'd go spare if she read that, hang on a tic... Okay, good, she hasn't seen –

**_WHAT IS WRONG WITH MUSHROOMS, RON?_**

Erm... never mind then.

Well, that was the (lousy) introduction to my (considerably less lousy… I hope – I haven't quite written it yet, you see) book, and now that it's done, I finally get to go to lunch. I'm bloody starving.

I've honestly no idea why I told you that.

Well, I guess I'll see you – er, write you – in a bit. Wait, all you have to do is turn the page, don't you? … Just forget this part, okay?

WHY ARE YOU TWO LAUGHING?

_A/N: Warning - potential craziness and Trio-liciousness ahead, just past the next exit, very good, now take a right... it'll be the first ice cream truck on the left, just past the antiques shoppe._

_*The idea for a sidekick guide was inspired by Opalish's fantastic parody, _Harry Potter's Guide to the Dark Arts_._


	2. Lesson One

_Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling, but I cannot declare with complete certainty that I am not Harry Potter._

_A/N: How's this for quick? Two days, baby! (What can I say? I was super motivated.)_

_Thank you, thank you, thank you (!!!) to all the amazing people who left lovely reviews (23 for the first chapter, eee!), Alerted__, and/or Favorited this fic;__ you guys made my day ;)_

_Important information about the format:__ the chapters will often be split between a 'Lesson' and an educational/relevant vignette (from Ron's perspective, of course), the reason for this explanation will become apparent about halfway down.  
_

_Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the chapter!_

[This chapter was revamped on February 16, 2010]

* * *

**Lesson One: You Will Most Likely End Up Risking Your Life Alarmingly Often**

* * *

Before I get into the nub and gist of the matter, I feel the need to address a common misconception amongst sidekicks-in-training (as well as virtually any guy between the ages of eleven and seventeen). With basically any job or activity that comes with potential health hazards, a disclaimer (in addition to a regrettable load of paperwork) is often involved in the mix. That is true (just in case any of you took that to be the misconception; don't worry, I'm getting to that bit). For this reason, I'm going to give you all forewarning, so when you somersault off a cliff or try to charm your nose hairs green or anything else incredibly unintelligent, I'll not be the one held responsible for your distressing lack of common sense, for you will have been adequately warned.

_Disclaimer: Remember kids - an invincibility complex never did anybody any good. Nobody's immortal, not even Voldemort (though he came pretty damn close, let me tell you.)_

Short, catchy, and to the point. Remember it.

It will soon become apparent (if it's not already) that there are many risks involved with being a sidekick. The greatest one, as you may already know, is the whole 'potentially deadly' aspect of the equation; it comes with the job and is irritatingly unavoidable. Of course, the worst possible outcome is death, which is very often fatal. 'How fatal?' you might ask. Very fatal. Some aspiring accomplices of virtue, however, seem to linger under the illusion that this does not apply to them.

Newsflash: it does.

That may be a bit difficult to hear (I wouldn't know, no one ever bothered to give me a warning when I started... not that I'm bitter), so pause for a mo', breathe deeply, and get me a sandwich.

Oh – er, sorry, not that last one (well, unless you really want to. I mean, I won't stop you or anything.)

Assuming you now feel better and have a more open-minded perspective of the universe, I'm going to move on to the actually useful bit of this chapter: the rest of it.

Unfortunately, saving the world is not as easy as, say, buying a fish. You can't simply prance over and say, 'Hey, evil bastard! Yes, you. Would it bother you terribly to stop being, well, evil? That would be absolutely marvelous of you, can't thank you enough. Cheers!' and go on your merry way.

Instead, you've got to do the whole deal: uncovering suspicious plots, fearing for your life, going places you'd really rather not be going to (I've done this far too often), and fighting cronies and the like. All this, and you're not even being paid (some might call that altruistic, I call it pretty effing unfair).

Hence, when you're best mates with a savior-of-everyone-and-their-mother, you tend to inexplicably end up in dangerous situations. It's just one of those things – like how Hermione has an abnormal addiction to books, or how Ginny likes her toast with marmalade. However, to maintain ideal amounts of safety and limbs, you should know what a dangerous situations is and how to classify one if you see one.

**How to Identify a Dangerous Situation (for amateurs):**

Dangerous Situation (noun, though Harry makes it look like a verb) – an occasion when your, your mates' and/or your loved ones' skins may need saving; where mental and bodily injury is a high possibility: _It became very apparent to Ron that the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament were __**dangerous situations**__, and that he really wasn't much jealous of Harry after all._

Synonyms: drowning, being surrounded by dark wizards/spiders/Lavender Brown, training your new pet hamster (apparently), a battle of some sort, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, basically every other bloody day. Antonyms: fluffy bunnies, éclairs, Christmas (_I don't recall Christmas being too jolly for Hermione and I last year... _You're ruining my thesaurus. Please stop.)

All right, I think you've got the general picture.

**How to Tell If You're in a 'Dangerous Situation':**

(1) Someone is firing a spell at you, and you suspect they're not doing it with nice intentions

(2) It suddenly occurs to you that the number of people in the room who want you alive is a very minor one (namely, you)

(3) You get that _This wasn't such a brilliant idea, was it?_ twinge in your gut

(4) Death Eaters are chasing/attacking/mocking you (e.g. in the Hall of Prophecy)

Practice Question (Evaluate the Situation): You (your leg broken), an escaped convict, a werewolf, an unconscious teacher, and an angry Harry Potter all walk/are dragged into the Shrieking Shack (Yes, I'm aware that sounds like the lead-in to a joke, but the punch line's not all that funny: _It was the man everyone had thought dead and who had spent the last twelve years posing as a pet rat the whole time!_).

Is this a Dangerous Situation?

a) Yes

b) No

c) I like pancakes

Answer: 'a' and 'c' are correct.

If you're at all squeamish at the thought or sight of blood, gore, or pain, I have some golden words of wisdom for you: Suck It Up. There will be a lot more of that coming, so there's no use in making a fuss about it (unless, naturally, doing so turns a situation to your advantage; like milking it with the girl you fancy, for instance…not that I've done that or anything…only a sixth year would do something like— I'm going to stop now).

To illustrate this point (_not_ the one on milking it for all it's worth, I think Hermione might have seen that and I like my head where it is, thanks), I'm going to give you a real-life example of a dangerous situation and coping with pain.

Not the sort of 'my sorry excuse for a best mate just prodded me with their wand' pain, nor the 'slowly being flogged to death with a woolen jumper' feeling not uncommonly felt during OWL revision sessions, or even the torture of Post-Traumatic Girlfriend Disorder (I still have flashbacks... _shudders_), but the 'a thousand cutlery knives are jabbing sensitive areas of my body repeatedly' sort of agony.

In my fifth year, during the now rather famous battle at the Department of Mysteries, a Death Eater put a curse on me that made my brain all wonky (_How could you tell the difference—?_ Piss off, Harry). In my altered state of mind, Summoning a ton of brains (which were being conveniently stored in a nearby vat) seemed, in my barmy opinion, to be a smashing idea. What can I say? They were enticingly squishy-looking.

Take it from me, you've never had déjà vu until you've forcibly experienced the memories of someone else (_Don't I know it... _Yes, Harry, and you can talk all you want about your experiences in your_ own _ruddy book!).

I still have scars on my arms from where the brains grabbed me. Do I dwell on it? No. In fact, they make me look rather rugged and badass (...seriously, you lot can stop laughing now...). There's a silver lining to everything.

The moral of this story is: anticipate pain, get over it, and move on.

And also, erm, you know, don't use _Accio_ on a vat of cerebral matter.

Ahem.

Also, you may not have a DA, but you should definitely be sharp on defensive spells, jinxes, hexes, and curses. Expect to need them. Always be prepared, as my mother says (granted, at the time she was talking of packing extra socks, but same difference really).

That being said, it's also quite useful to have your other best mate/love interest be a genius and have knowledge of healing spells and potions as well as the foresight to pack said potions and remedies.

...

Have I been forgiven yet?

_**NO.**_

...

Erm - and it should be mentioned that said best mate/love interest is stunningly pretty...?

_Why thank you, Ron.  
_

Ha ha, Harry. No.

_**STILL NOT WORKING.**_

Argh._ Women…_

* * *

_Mid-Winter, 1996_

Pig, being the sorry excuse for a bird he is, somehow managed to miss the usual delivery time at breakfast (how he didn't notice that he was the _only_ one left in the Owlery is beyond me). Instead, his puny brain reckoned it would be a _far_ more splendid idea to drop a letter on my head at nine o'clock in the bleeding evening, completely scaring the shit out of me.

It wasn't.

A splendid idea, I mean.

Anyway, it's Mum's latest letter, freshly approved by the Ministry Safety-Scanning Brigade (or whatever... I have no idea what they're actually called). I swear, she must've had her _Pocket Witch's Guide to Maternal Paranoia_ (if there is such a thing), flipped open to the chapter on coddling, next to her when she wrote this. Nothing in here's new: she's worried about me; doesn't want me to get in any trouble (fat chance); wants to know if I need any more socks; and hopes I'm keeping up with my homework (a damn sight more difficult task now that Hermione's not speaking to me).

I can't really blame her, though. I think out of all of us – the kids, that is – Mum worries after me the most. I may not have as many detentions as Fred and George have under their belts, but I've gotten into heaps more trouble than all of us put together. Side effect of being best mates with Harry bloody Potter, I suppose. He's a bad influence on me.

I tell him this.

He chuckles, still bent over his half-finished Charms essay. "Am I?"

"Well, yeah." I stretch my arms over my head and lean back into the couch cushions (we managed to score the best ones by the fire). My Transfiguration homework – or at least, a piece of blank parchment with my name scribbled in the top right corner which'll at some point _be_ my Transfiguration homework (I'm still putting it off with the hopes that it'll complete itself – call it scientific curiosity) – lies in front of me on the table. "I mean, all the evidence points against you. If I hadn't sat next to you on the train first year, I reckon I'd be leading a fairly normal life right now."

"If by 'normal' you mean 'boring', then yeah," he retorts, scratching out a feeble sentence. "'Sides, you brought it upon yourself, mate. _You're_ the one who chose to sit in my compartment."

"Yeah, and that was bloody good planning on my part. How many times have you saved my family now?"

"You've just contradicted yourself." I choose to ignore that. "Hmm, when you put it like that, it sounds like I'm a rather good influence, wouldn't you say?"

"Hardly," I'm not willing to surrender my argument. It's been a while since I've had a good bicker now that Hermione's gone and… yeah. "Who knows what kind of person I'd have been… your average rule-abiding citizen, perhaps, or a member of the Gobstones Club, or even a star scholar – Merlin knows I've lost a lot of valuable revision time running about on various adventures." He snorts skeptically. I narrow my eyes at him (something that seems to have very little effect) and say, with a voice that I hope sounds threatening (or at the very least, somewhat ominous), "Just you watch. One of these days we're going to do something like get expelled or drop out, and it'll be all your fault."

Harry laughs (he doesn't do that enough). It's true, though. I mean, look what else has happened. A clear pattern has definitely been established (_wake up, breakfast, trouble, classes, more trouble, quick lunch, trouble, revision, dinner, spot of bother with an authority figure - aka trouble - bed; lather, rinse, and repeat_).

* * *

Blimey, it's strange having dramatic irony about _myself_. Cuts out a bit of the suspense, don't you think?

...

Wait, you can't really answer that, can you (without looking absolutely barmy talking to a book)?

Never mind, then.

* * *

_Hmmm, well I hope that was just as enjoyable as the primary chapter - feel free to leave me any comments/questions/suggestions/random notions :)_

_This chap's petite anecdote isn't as humorous as those to come (though it's not too dreary either), but I felt that was necessary... well I like it :P_

_Oh, and if there are any musings on the wording, I think over the years some of Hermione's vocabulary was bound to seep into Ron's skull via verbal osmosis (whether he bothers to use it at all or correctly is debatable)._

_-Zooey Potter_

This chapter has been edited and augmented for the purposes of my own sanity (with spelling and grammar) and your own enjoyment (with additions and expansions). Hopefully, the overall quality has also been boosted. Tell me what you think?


	3. Lesson Two

_Disclaimer: the usual._

_A/N: Once again, thank you so so much for all the support! Oh my gosh, 42 reviews! I cannot tell you how excited I am :)  
_

_Alrighty, I've a few bits of info that should be helpful and/or useful (hopefully both). One, a reviewer asked when this is being written. I'd say Ron starts writing this the winter after the Battle of Hogwarts as that summer would be one of much grief and probably not a lot of humor. However, I wouldn't necessarily say it's written at Christmas as the family would be dealing with the fact that it's their first Fred-less Christmas. Thus, Ron probably starts writing this in January of '99._

_Also, I hope the transition to the anecdote is smoother than last time ;)_

Guide to Commentary (who's who):

_**Hermione **_

_Harry_

Ginny

[This chapter was revamped on February 15, 2010]

_

* * *

__You aren't seriously writing about this, are you?_

It's my duty, Harry; they need to be warned.

_Your du____—_You know what? Never mind. You've clearly lost it. Go on,_ if you must..._

Huh, I didn't think he'd give up so_—_ WHAT IN EFFING HELL? WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT A BROOM'S LENGTH APART AT _ALL_ TIMES?!

...

And they just carry on. Typical.

Granted, they probably weren't paying too much attention to what I was writing as their faces are rather... occupied at the moment_— _ugh.

Hang on a tic, I need to scourge my eyeballs and use a memory charm on myself... you know, eradicate all possibility of mental scarring and all that.

...

* * *

**Lesson Two: He Might Fall in Love With Your Sister**

**

* * *

**

To be perfectly honest, I never saw it coming.

Then again, Hermione has always said that I 'have a knack for complete and utter ignorance of the patently obvious.'

I like to think of that as a compliment; in a roundabout way, she's calling me unique (I haven't actually gotten around to looking up 'patently' yet, but I'm sure it means something along the lines of 'adorable' and 'funny')...'course, she might've actually been insulting me, which would mean that I just proved her point there.

**_You did._**

Oh. Well, then. Passing over that...

The thing is, I don't think my mate's disturbing romantic sentiments for my younger sister quite qualify as 'obvious'. You see (or rather, _don't_ see, depending on your location and eyesight), Harry operates in two different states: painfully transparent and irritatingly guarded.

Examples:

a) Cho Chang – Pathetically Blatant (as well as blatantly pathetic—_Hey!_)

b) Ginny – Really Sneaky (Hermione disagrees, but we can't all be Little Miss Observant)

This is why I recommend _CONSTANT VIGILANCE_ (shout that bit out to achieve maximum effect) so you aren't crept up on unawares and find yourself watching your best mate spontaneously snog your sister in front of a hundred people or so.

Or, you know, any of the other times they got up to... _that_ as well.

* * *

_Spring, 1997_

The match is over. We won. It's impossible for me to stand in one place for more than three seconds at a time — I probably look like some sort of caffeinated pixie (the closest comparison to a pixie I'll ever get) — I can't wipe off the (probably mad-looking) grin that keeps spreading across my face. _We won._

Though the common room is full of excited babble, bad dancing (no, not _mine_, thank you), and various foodstuffs nicked from the kitchens, the party hasn't truly begun yet; everyone's sort of milling about near the entrance, eyes darting every so often towards the resolutely _shut_ portrait hole (though there was that one false alarm with a very panicked looking first year, who seemed rather perturbed to have the entire contents of Gryffindor Tower shouting at him) as we wait to obnoxiously scream the results of the match at our unknowing Captain.

My eyes flick from Ginny, who's chattering to me about the game, how kick-arse my last save was, and _did I see the look on Chang's face?_ to the portrait hole, where from Harry should soon emerge. Any minute now. Really, it shouldn't be too long. I hope. Harry doesn't know about the match yet, and I want to be the one to tell him (thereby asserting my natural rights of best mate-ship).

As if on cue (or because I'm just _that_ magical... ha, _right_), the portrait hole creaks open, and the room falls silent. It has to be him. I mean, everyone else in Gryffindor is already here.

The silence doesn't last long. Shouts and cheers erupt as Harry steps (more like is yanked forcibly) into the room. His face turns from a resigned expression (did he doubt us or something?) to elated bemusement.

"We won!" I yell excitedly, brandishing the silver cup. "We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!"

I dimly register Ginny leaving my side. She runs towards him, probably to give him a hug; I'll never understand why girls have a compulsive need to do th—

_What in the names of Merlin and pumpkin juice?_

Either Harry's a really bad hugger and missed the appropriate, pre-designated over-the-shoulder spot for his face, or my best mate is _kissing_ my little sister.

_In front of everyone._

Kissing.

Sister.

Harry.

I feel like I've taken a club to the head.

...

Merlin, how long are they going to stay like that? From experience, I know you need to resurface for air _sometime_, and this is getting rather uncomfortable.

Harry pulls away (_finally_), beaming. I've never seen Harry smile like that, it's weird... and kind of depressing, really (that I've never seen him do that). He looks right at me, over Ginny's shoulder (oh, _now_ he figures out the proper hug-head position, great). I can't work out his expression... it's like he's asking my permission or something.

Well, what else am I supposed to do? I'll look like the world's biggest arse if I refuse, especially _in front_ _of_ _everyone_. So I nod weakly (I'm still in a state of shock, I'm going to have to have quite a bit of that spiked punch before I recover).

They leave through the portrait hole; I notice their hands are intertwined. Hermione turns to me, grinning her face off.

"Isn't it _wonderful?_" she gushes. I blink at her.

The words "What just happened?" pour out of my mouth. I almost wish I hadn't said it, because I can see Hermione working up a classic know-it-all genius look (she's probably got a patent on it, I swear).

"Harry and Ginny kissed," explains Hermione patiently. I typically would've found her patronizing tone offensive, but I see the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Yeah, I got that part," I quip sarcastically, unable to contain an eye roll (I may not be many things, but I'm always consistent). "What I want to know is _why_."

Hermione quirks an eyebrow. "Harry fancies her — and apparently, she fancies him right back."

Pardon, what? I ask her to repeat it, she obliges slightly impatiently.

I would vehemently deny her absurd statement, tell her she's inhaled too many potions fumes, but I just saw with my own eyes them... yeah, so I'm a bit uncertain (_I_ thought Ginny was over him, for one, not to mention the whole 'Harry fancies Ginny' bit). I demand, "Since when?"

"All year practically." I can tell from Hermione's wistful expression that she thinks this is all very bloody romantic. Girls.

"Why didn't he—" My stomach twinges with this information. My own best mate can't do me the service of telling me he's got the hots for my sister?

"—Tell you?" Hermione finishes. Her demeanor has transitioned into one of barely-restrained frustration. I dunno what her problem is; _she's_ not the one who was slighted here (you know, besides Dean and Romilda). "You're her _brother_. Harry was probably intimidated by your less-than-supportive treatment of her relationships; he probably thought you'd do the same to him."

I'll admit, I _do_ have a track-record... but what does she expect? Ginny's my little sister. It's practically the _law_ for me to be an over-protective moron.

Hermione eyes me critically. "I will not allow you to do the same to them. Harry will be happy with Ginny. You _want_ Harry to be happy, don't you?" she adds, her lovely eyes shooting challenging daggers at me.

That is hardly fair: _of course_ I want Harry to be happy! Just, I'd have rather preferred him being happy with someone _not_ related to me.

Hermione's still staring at me expectantly. I sigh and acquiesce, "Fine, I won't _bother_ them about it." She smiles with satisfaction at my response... she looks pretty when she does that. I continue, "But they better keep the... physical stuff," my mouth twists into a grimace — I feel a bit ill (bad mental images, _bad_), "to themselves, I don't want to see that... it'll put me off my food."

She rolls her eyes at that last part, but doesn't retort. On some level, she understands the gravity of my actions: I've just broken the older brother code of law. Bill and the twins are going to give me absolute hell for this.

* * *

For the sake of maintaining my image (_What image?_—Harry, you're just miffed that I'm discussing your love life in an all-accessible publication, and you know it), I will add that, after they began going out, I did start notice.

_One would hope so._

Yes, thanks for the sentiment. Not. I meant that I noticed how my friend — you; no, not you-you, but Harry-you. _Thanks for clearing that up, mate, for a second there I was completely befuddled by your remarkable use of syntax... _Don't you have anything better to do (that doesn't involve Ginny's lips)?— anyway, how my friend (Harry) acted around her — my sister, I mean.

This includes, but isn't limited to: smiling like a madman whenever she's within three meters of him (and an awful lot when she's not, too); blushing; at times, being unable to speak coherently in her presence (that one's my favorite, pretty bloody hilarious if you ask me — just picture it: one minute you can't get him to shut up about Quidditch, and the next his jaw's all hanging open simply because Ginny's walked in sporting a low-cut tee shirt) — oh yeah, this is also often paired with the aforementioned blushing, and talking about her all the time — I can't get him to shut up.

However, as I said before, it's always a good thing to predict this sort of thing (learn from my mistake). For this reason, I've — _**AHEM**_ — I mean, _Hermione_ _and I_ have compiled a list.

**How to Tell if Your Best Mate is Falling for Your Sister - a Diagnostic Test (some data provided by Hermione 'I'm-Too-Sharp-for-My-Own-Good' Granger):**

(1) He begins to stare at her, all the time — and not, might I add, because she's got jam on her face.

(2) Aforementioned staring leads to many Bludger-induced Quidditch injuries (even more conspicuous when said best mate plays Seeker, and is thus supposedly more watchful than the rest of us)

(3) He needs to talk to/laugh with/casually touch her constantly, which gets really bloody annoying. (I dunno, I can't say I minded all that much— When the hell did you get here? Wait, never mind. I don't really care.)

(4) He's always asking really subtle (_**i.e.**_ _**obvious**_) questions about her and her current relationship.

(5) etc., etc., etc.

Of course, then, after 'finally' getting her, he'll probably be a noble prat and break it off with her. I say 'probably' assuming that he suffers from a hero complex like most saviors-of-the-world (I can only guess, I haven't met too many).

Another annoying part of that, besides the heartbreak and whatever, is that he's the only one in the world who can get away with the line, 'Sorry, I have to hop around the country looking for bits of You-Know-Who's soul — oh yeah, and a squad of chic-ly dressed psychopaths will terrorize everyone I care about, not to mention the strong possibility that all of this just might kill me. So you understand where I'm coming from when I say I can't really have a girlfriend right now.'

_I did not say it like that at all._

It's called _paraphrasing_, Harry_ — _like what we did with Divination homework, remember?

_That's what _I_ did with Divination homework. What _you_ did is called _'copying directly from the textbook'_, Ron._

Yeah, well, like she knew the difference.

_That is so not the point. _

**_You did _**_**WHAT?**_

Um... baked you cookies?

**_I'M NOT AN IDIOT, RON—_**

Damn.

See what I meant about not having a credible 'I didn't do it, I swear' look?

**_—EVERYONE KNOWS YOU CAN'T BAKE.  
_**

(note to self: learn how to bake)

_**ONCE AGAIN, DO NOT INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE.**_

I wouldn't dream of it. When will you stop talking in ALL CAPS?

_**WHEN YOU STOP BEING AN IGNORAMUS.**_

So more or less never, then.

I will retaliate wittily later... after I've gotten my hands on a dictionary.

Oh, and, Harry? I've no idea what you see in her — Ginny, that is —, I really don't.

_I thought this whole chapter was about you 'seeing' exactly that._

Chapter? What is he on about? ... _Oh!_ Bugger, I completely— I mean... sorry you had to read all that. Harry tried to sidetrack me, being the inconsiderate bloke that he... well, _isn't_... and I suppose I got distracted a bit.

Moving right along, then.

(Pay attention, Harry, this will probably be one of the few times I'll ever say this.)

I guess I haven't got much reason to complain much (besides the snogging), and neither should you. If your mate is anything like Harry, then you probably haven't seen him really happy too often, and, if your sister (_urgh_) makes him happy, than so be it.

_However_, it should be duly noted by involved parties that snogging does _not_ necessarily equate with happiness. I'm sure you two can find bliss and all that in a strictly meter's-distance-apart relationship... it's not like it's long distance (though feel free give that one a try as well).

_Thanks, mate._

No problem. Get me a sandwich, will you?

_No._

There's a good lad. Wait, what? You ungrateful little—

* * *

_A/N: This chapter's not up to my usual standards (I don't think), but school's started again and I've been swamped, which overall has left me very little free time to write —_ _I'm probably going to try to tighten it up more later, but I wanted to get this out for you all who've been so patiently waiting (I'm really sorry about that, but it can't be helped). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless; don't forget to tell me what you think ;)!_

Once again, tell me what you think of the changes! Anything I missed?


	4. Lesson Three

_A/N: I'm really quite sorry for the wait. You see, I'm a subscriber of a phenomenon called 'Real Life' and it always seems to get in the way. Anywho, muchos gracias for all the wonderful support (59 reviews as well as a grand number of fav's and alerts, eee)! _

_Happy reading!_

* * *

**Lesson Three: He Might Suddenly Get Good-Looking (and what to do when and if he does)  
**

* * *

I, Ron Weasley, am the picture of brilliance. I ought to have have my portrait hung in the Ministry or something. Why? I've outwitted them all - a number that include Hermione Granger, Girl Genius. How? I've locked myself in the attic, that's how! Ha! They can't possibly pester me now.

... OK, with all the hindsight that two minutes allows me, I'll admit that this isn't one of my cleverer schemes. For starters, I'm none too fond of the ghoul (who's still got my pajamas; I think he likes them), and then there's the fact that Harry and Hermione could very easily follow me up here, owing to the fact that they're bleeding _magical_.

Which leads me to my next point. Life has a habit of being remarkably unfair, as well as having more than a bit of an anti-Ron Weasley agenda going on.

If you weren't already aware, ours (meaning me, Harry, and Hermione, and _not_ that I have multiple personalities or something) is a thrilling tale; one of action, adventure, triumph, tragedy, bravery, betrayal, romance, experimental vegetarian cuisine, and an unprecedented amount of homework.

But also, romance.

... Or did I mention that already?

Whatever.

Perhaps 'romance' is too broad a description. That word conjures images of flowers, cuddling, wooing, and a bunch of other stuff that scares the shit out of me. (Luckily, I managed to get _my_ girl on natural charm alone...)

You can stop snorting now, Harry; you're no better.

Oh, and while you're at it, get your girlfriend to stop snickering as well, would you?

Well, that was certainly effective. Can't say I appreciate your method though.

The concept I'm really getting at is _girls_. More specifically: _pretty_ girls.

Of course, those tend to scare the shit out of me as well — but that's beside the point.

The fact of the matter is (and you've probably heard this all before, unless you spent puberty in some sort of single-sex underground cave colony), pretty girls have a frustrating habit of lusting after good-looking blokes — an exceptionally maddening practice, if you ask me.

_Well I didn't ask you, did I?_

Actually, mate, you _did_, during that awkward stage of yours — you remember, back in fourth year? You were a scrawny midget (no changes there) and in the throes of unrequited mooning over Cho— _shut up_.

That was awfully satisfying. Allow me a moment to bask in that, would you?

Alright, I've successfully chronicled that moment in my mental 'Exceedingly Excellent Memories' file, so I'll continue on, now.

Well, that was actually a superb transition to my next point — don't let this go to your specky head, mate — he (your hero-type mate) might suddenly, Merlin knows how, get good-looking. I would like to mention that I'm acknowledging this transformation in a _thoroughly_ heterosexual manner (Good, I don't think I'd be able to handle it if you went after Harry... Neither would I, Ginny, neither would I).

It's an unnerving change. I mean, one moment he's a scrappy little shrimp, and the next he's... not. All the birds suddenly want him (even _Hermione_ went into raptures about how "dishy" he is— _**I did no such thing, Ron, don't exaggerate**_), and will go to disturbing (and pretty damn hilarious) lengths to get him.

_I didn't think you getting poisoned was a barrel of laughs._

I was referring to the love potion bit.

_Right, _that_ part was effing hysterical, I—_

—will never speak of it again.

If you're like me, then you probably spent most of your adolescence being fawned over by those of the female sex (in this instance 'fawned over' having the meaning 'rejected' or 'ignored'), but probably aren't used to girls swooning over your mate.

I mean, sure, by this time you're probably used to hearing people whispering about him in the corridor; but now, instead of stuff like _"D'you reckon he's the Chosen One?"_ and similar comments, you hear oddities like _"He's such a dish!"_, _"Oh, Merlin, I think he just _looked_ at me!"_ (stop the owls!), and, most alarmingly: _"Would you check out the bum on _that_ one!" _(verbatim).

You should become accustomed to various adjectives being associated with your (somehow oblivious) best mate, including 'gorgeous', 'smoking', 'handsome as hell', and (ugh, I shudder writing this) 'shagalicious'.

But you just can't bring yourself to hate him for it. That's the thing about Harry: he doesn't seem to realize it at all.

* * *

_November, 1998_

"Mail's here," Ginny announces, flouncing into the kitchen like a flouncing... thing. My darling sister dumps a half-conscious Errol next to my plate (narrowly missing the marmalade) and begins to sift through the newly-arrived post with tactless disregard for my breakfast, which she barely avoided ruining.

"Anything for me?" I ask. Only, because my mouth is full of toast, it comes out more like 'Enfing fomee?' (though any person with a decently sized brain should be able to work that one out). Hermione throws me a repulsed look from across the table, but I'm used to that.

"Actually, _yes_, Ron," says Ginny. I sit up straighter and she tosses something into my lap. "Knock yourself out."

It's a colorful and sparkling advertisement for women's dress robes. Thanks, Gin.

I open my mouth to say something witty in response, but Ginny rudely interrupts my sarcasm with a screech.

"WHAT IS IT?" cries Mum, rushing out of the kitchen, armed with a spatula (_very_ threatening...not). Ginny (most unusually) is silent. She is simply gaping at something she has clenched in her hands as her face turns an impressive shade of scarlet. What the hell could be making her act so weird? I stand up as well, and deftly maneuver my head so I'm peering over her shoulder at the offending object.

Merlin, she's such a drama queen. She's going spare over the new issue of _Witch Weekly_. I roll my eyes and sit down to return to my (slightly feathered) breakfast. This season's color probably clashes with her hair or something equally daft.

"Wha—... who do they... what the... _damn them!_" she splutters indignantly. This outburst draws me (unwillingly) away from my breakfast yet again; even for Ginny, this is a bit of an overreaction (especially to something as sensationally trivial as _fashion_).

Mum's reprimanding of Ginny for 'swearing' (ha) is effectively cut off by the site of Harry stumbling into the room, brandishing his wand, and looking very much like he had just suffered from an electrocution. His eyes dart around the table until they land on my sister who, with her brilliantly red face, furious eyes, and banshee hair, is a vision of madness (but what else is new?).

"Ginny!" he gasps, plainly thrown off by the distinct absence of Death Eaters in the room. "What happened?"

My sister is still incapable of speech (whatever she's gone berserk over, it's working bloody miracles), but she looks up at Harry's anxious voice. Instantly, her eyes narrow dangerously. She stalks over to his rigid form (probably resulting from a brutal combination of terror and confusion) and unceremoniously shoves the magazine into his stomach. This seems to be enough to pull Harry back into the world of mobility, for he, rubbing his abdomen, picks up the fallen issue from the floor and begins to sweep the cover. What does she expect him to find there? Holiday recipes? The best type of robe for his body type?

His jaw falls open, giving him the attractive expression of one recently Stupefied. He looks at Ginny, who glowers back at him (pretty scary sight, that is).

I'm starting to get annoyed; what in hell is so _effing_ amazing?

In a concerned voice (I can hardly blame her, I'm undergoing shock about my sister's apparent passion for fashion, which she alarmingly seems to share with my best mate), Hermione inquires hesitantly, "What is it, Harry?"

Harry, too, seems stunned into silence. Instead of responding, he merely hands her the magazine (what is this, bloody pass the parcel?). Hermione eyes widen and her mouth twitches as though she trying to contain giggles.

"Lemme see." I pry the magazine from Hermione's giggle-loosened hands and take another gander at the cover.

Oh sweet Merlin.

Instead of the usual model-witch, on the front of _Witch Weekly_ is a full-color portrait of Harry, with the caption 'Desirable Number One' emblazoned across the bottom.

I give my mate a sidelong glance. He looks like he's just received instructions to turn over his first-born son to Umbridge for her to raise as her own. Harry meets my glance in a daze and shrugs bemusedly. I immediately know he had nothing to do with this (besides, you know, existing). Out of the corner of my eye I see Mum, satisfied that no one's life is in any immediate danger (she obviously missed Ginny's death-glare), return into the kitchen.

"Ginny?" starts Hermione tentatively. I switch my attention to Ginny, who's been silent for an inordinate period of time. Hermione snatches the magazine from me and flips it open to the article in question. She begins to read aloud:

"_'Harry Potter has been selected by readers as the 'Chosen One' for this year's hottest wizard bachelor. The sexy single-who-lived...'_"

Hermione pauses (thank Godric — I was starting to feel ill), and a look of comprehension passes over her features. A figurative ekeltric bulb (I dunno; ask Harry) lights up over my head, swiftly followed by a feeling of immense smugness: I figured it out almost as fast as _Hermione_. I feel clever. Ginny's brassed off that they called Harry 'single' and is projecting her anger (as she does) onto him. Poor bloke (... eh, not really, he's just been named 'sexiest bachelor' by _Witch _bleeding_ Weekly_, the hallowed text of Witch-kind, after all. He'll live.)

"But that's ridiculous," remarks Harry, master of all things obvious (even _I_ know the Seeker for the Hornets is far more fit), "I'm not single _or_ sexy."

Ginny snorts skeptically (I pretend not to notice this) and begins muttering obscenities under her breath. I hope she realizes (on her own; there's no way I'm speaking to her while she's in this state) that Harry is _not_ the one responsible for this. In all honesty, he's a rather private sort of bloke. He doesn't exactly go parading around with Ginny on his arm, yelling, "Hail, earthlings! I'm Harry Potter and this here's my girlfriend!"

... Come to think of it, perhaps he _should_. I mean, it would silence any contradicting false proclamations of his alleged single-dom.

The point is, he would never go to the giggly editors of some magazine to have a photo-shoot and submit his name for some ridiculous contest.

Even if she does register this, Ginny is continuing to seethe, to Harry's obvious and utter... 'delight' just doesn't seem to fit here, for some reason.

"Er... I'm sorry?" he tries, staring at my sister in abject fright.

"Merlin, Harry, try not to be so sexy, will you?" says George, who's peering over Hermione's shoulder at the 'article' in question. He shakes his head and grins.

Ginny's eyes flash and a smirk plays on her lips. I'm suddenly afraid for my life... Harry better get his hero-boy act together soon or he may become best mate-less.

"Promise you won't do anything rash," pleads Hermione desperately. Fat chance. 'Rash' is Ginny's second middle name (after 'Molly', of course) and she's bloody _dating_ He-Who-Does-Not-Think-Before-He-Acts.

* * *

The next week, when the latest issue arrived (you've probably been scarred by— I mean, seen it, as well), I paged through it (just to check to see if there were any new developments, _not_ because I secretly harbor a fixation with women's clothing, thanks) and was met with the sickening sight of my sister and my best mate snogging — in a _full-motion_ photograph, mind you — under the caption 'Sizzling Savior No Longer Single'.

Ginny didn't bother correcting the editors about the misconceived length of their relationship, but I wrote them a very pointed memo regarding the cheesiness of their galling abuse of literary devices in their headlines. Honestly, who _does_ that?

Basically, when it comes to your mate and the opposite sex, my advice for dealing with this crime against the natural course of things is to simply ignore it (or, the more aggressive option: curse him into ugliness, but I'm trying to stick with counsel that won't make you a social pariah... or land you in Azkaban, for that matter).

Oh, yeah, and make sure you snag your own future girlfriend early (in a fully respectful, non-literal manner of course! — dammit, she's not paying attention)... before she too is in the clutches of his agonizing attractiveness.

I understand that it's completely illogical (the first bit, of course; the second piece makes perfect sense), but Life's just like that: the weedy shrimp suddenly fills out (still pretty a fairly scrawny fellow, though — just to clear up any false impressions) and grows a bit (very much necessary, I was going to have to have him pay for my chiropractic healing, seeing as it was his fault I'd to crane my neck downwards constantly and all that), which all in all abruptly leads to him being the dreamboat of every witch's... er, dreams... and maybe boats (I don't pretend to know Legilimency).

_I'm going to assume there was a compliment hidden in there somewhere.  
_

Assume all you like, mate.

* * *

_A/N: I hope that was as entertaining and enjoyable as before :)  
_

_Shameless plug: review! (I love constructive feedback)_

**Important Note About This Chapter:** I've gotten some comments about this chapter complaining that I describe Harry as some sort of foxy sexgod. This fic is told through Ron's POV, and as such, his insecurities are incorporated into the telling of the narrative. Ron has been shown to harbor a deep-seated inferiority complex, which often leads him to subconsciously amplify and skew the reactions of others towards Harry. (Re-read the first half of GoF for further evidence of this). So while while Harry is never described as supermegaspicyhot in the books, he does receive a fair bit of attention from members of the female sex (particularly in HBP) - though arguably more because of his fame and the allure of being the "Chosen One" then his looks. But Ron wouldn't see it quite that way_. _What Ron sees is him and Harry having to divert into secret passageways to dodge hordes of girls and Hermione calling Harry "more fanciable than ever". Especially at a point in adolescence where such attention is craved, Ron, who has never really gotten such interest, would probably exaggerate it in his mind.

(I'd also thought I'd point out both the canonical evidence of Lily being 'very pretty' and the tendency of many fan fiction writers to assume the same level of attractiveness with James. As Harry is described as being nearly identical to James, save for a few of Lily's features, it can be conjectured that he's not a complete eyesore.)


	5. Lesson Four

_A/N: I am so, so sorry for the wait! Thanks again to all the people who've reviewed and favorited this story!_

**

* * *

**

**Lesson Four: Your Family May Unofficially Adopt Him**

* * *

You might recall from my award-winning (well, not yet, anyway) introduction that Harry Potter is an Honorary Weasley. Of course, if you're like me, you skipped over that bit and this is all new information to you... you must be _so_ excited.

... or not.

Well, regardless of whether you're a lazy arse or not, I've no doubt that a fair number of you ignorant fools (no offense) just read that and thought to yourselves, 'Ooh, it would so _brill_ if my best mate lived at my house!'

Well you're wrong: it's not. — Especially when you're already forced to live with him ALL YEAR.

_Come off it, Ron, it's loads worse for me— just 'cos _you've_ developed an immunity to your socks doesn't mean the rest of us have._

Remind me to put wartcap powder in your trainers sometime, Harry.

...

What you've just read was an excellent demonstration, if I do say so myself, of the correct following of the number one rule of surrogate family-ing your hero best mate, no matter how unbelievably irritating he is: diplomacy at all times (_I wasn't jok—_ shut it, will you?)

... Well, _most_ times, anyway.

The second (though equally important) cardinal rule of the [insert type of rule I said above and really don't feel like repeating] is, of course, mark out a clearly defined schedule for who gets the Loo first.

That's right: 'Loo' with a capital 'L' — in contrast to, it goes without saying (though I will take the liberty to do so anyway), 'loo' with a _lowercase_ 'l', which is in fact... erm, the same thing. So, yeah...

I've found that a really top-notch strategy for determining this vitally important order is 'tallest goes first'. This one has worked out smashingly for me; I dunno if you've seen Harry outside of pictures, but let me tell you—

_Passing over my height, how d'you work that one out?_

Well, _obviously_ it's because tall people... must... have a tendency... have to... are further from the ground. Yeah, that's the one.

_I like 'saviors of the world have priority', personally._

You would. Sorry, mate, but my house, my rules.

_You mean: your house, your mum's rules._

Hopefully (unless you're extraordinarily dim) you're beginning to work out exactly why year-round room-mating isn't as hunky-dory as you — don't deny it — first thought; he (your mate, that is... just putting that in there in case your thought I was going on about your parakeet or something) can be right insufferable at times. Merlin forbid he and Ginny get married, then I'd be _legally_ stuck with him.

_You make it sound like that's a bad thing._

It is. Have you ever lived with yourself?

_Yes; I do believe I have done from time to time, actually._

Well I hate to burst your bubble, mate, but you seriously overestimate your charm and fun-ness.

_Fun-ness isn't a word._

... My point exactly.

Sorry, I've gone off topic a bit (*glares at sorry excuse for a moral supporter*). Moving right along, now...

As you've found yourself, poor thing, saddled with a hero for a best friend, then you most likely are already aware that he has a rotten home life.

If you _didn't_ already know that, then one, what kind of friend are you? And two, he's got one — I don't know why that is, it just seems to work out that way.

Hence, being the ace mate you are, you'll (or already have, if you're just that marvelous of a person) offer him your humble abode as his home-away-from-his-other-rubbish-home. I started early: Harry began coming round holidays before second year.

If this indeed does happen to you (I've no way of knowing, I never was great shakes at Divination), then I should warn you about some things.

[Soon (e.g. once you've finished this book; you're nowhere near ready yet), you'll be able to pick these out on your own; after a while they become more obvious than Kreacher at a fancy dress party.]

(1) If he's anything like Harry, then he's got the 'I had a really wretched childhood, but managed to remain good-hearted, helpful, and modest, not to mention adorable' disposition down to an art-form, and consequently, your parents might decide to unofficially make him their non-ginger son

(2) Your brothers (note: if you haven't got any, you lucky bastard, simply substitute 'brothers' with the appropriate plural noun, e.g. 'sisters', 'cats', 'avocados', etc.) might come to the conclusion that he's the pesky little git they've always wanted (_Don't be so hard on yourself, mate; they had you _years_ before I was added to the mix—_ Oi, you're really asking for it today, aren't you?)

(3) Likewise, your sister... well, let's not go there (if you _really_ want to know, see Lesson Two... I just cannot bear to repeat myself)

(4) Due to his aforementioned home life and charming-wraith personality, he'll be exempt from chores... 'course, considering he's the noble hero-type, he'll probably do them anyway, but it's the principle of the thing that's so bloody unreasonable

(5) Just when you were lucky enough to land your own room, you suddenly have to share it. In turn, this means he'll have access to first-rate blackmail (mind, this is both a plus and a minus, as it works both ways)

(6) Because he's so Good and Noble and Hero-rific, whenever there's a spot of trouble (for example... hypothetically of course... you decided to play a game of Quidditch using a watermelon as a Quaffle... not that we've ever done that or anything... and said watermelon lands on your brother's head, ahem), you're going to get the weight of the blame. Of course, once again, he'll fess up as well (due to the side-effects of the characteristic listed above), but it's seriously unfair anyway.

(7) Prepare yourself for a lot of adolescent angst (I'll elaborate on this later)

To tell the truth, it's not that bad (the living-with-your-family, not the angst thing — _that's_ bleeding unbearable, trust me). Sometimes, it's quite fun. I mean, when Harry's here, we play Quidditch more or less continuously (_and_ I get to use his top-of-the-line broom - another perk of the field).

Also, he doesn't take the mickey as much as my siblings (mind-blowing, I know). However, I don't mean to say that he never pokes fun - that would be lying, something I don't like to do... mostly because I'm dead awful at it.

(Oh yeah, and I believe I mentioned above that he's adorable and your mum will fuss over him like there's no tomorrow, instead of me — I mean, you for once)

Here is a **textbook example** (blimey, bold makes it looks rather important, doesn't it...) of what I like to call, '**Torturing** **Ron** [or, you know the drill, insert your name there]':

_A few days ago..._

_Hermione's taking way too long in the bathroom. I rap loudly on the door, rocking back and forth on my heels.  
_

_"C'mon, I'm sure you look gorgeous – " I plead, now performing an impressive jig on my toes._

_No response. Meh._

_I suddenly recall The Book _[as it shall henceforth be called, as various family members of mine will undoubtedly read this]_, and its chapter on the art of 'flirting'. I clear my throat._

_"Oi, Hermione—" Smooth one, Romeo; how bleeding romantic of you._

_I prepare for Attempt #2.  
_

_"Hey, erm, you've been in there ages... I'm sure if you look any better than you've already made yourself, it'll be too distracting." I grin to myself, I managed to say something (semi) smooth without insulting her grandmother or something equally dimwitted._

_The door swings open (it's about time!), and the I feel the grin slide off my face and land somewhere near my maroon socks._

_"I'll try not to, but I understand your concern," says Harry, smirking._

_...Why do I even try?  
_

_I grunt, "Budge over," and push past him into the small bathroom, locking the door behind me. I hear his laughter as he traipses down the stairs._

_"Don't worry, mate, I won't tell Hermione about your secret passion!"_

_Tosser.  
_

Yeah, so... that charm didn't exactly *cough* work out as anticipated... I didn't expect my thoughts to be included too.

Then again, is there ever a day that I _don't_ make a fool of myself?

*cue clichéd chorus of crickets*

That's what I thought.

Just to review, the (I haven't actually counted them up yet, so just say your favorite bloody number and move along) commandments of living with your best mate are:

(1) Try not to kill each other — especially 'cos, chances are, the fate of the world will be a lot more sunshine-y and... not evil if he's kept alive

(2) **Ron** gets the loo first (no exceptions)

(3) Don't let it bother you too much that everyone in your family seems to prefer him to you

(4) **Ron** also gets cake first (_Since when?_ Since forever, Harry, Where have you been?)

(5) Keep him away from your sister at all costs— _Hey! _Alright, _alright_, please remove your wand from my temple! I wish you two a very happy and celibate relationship.

You did NOT just say that.

No, Ginny, I didn't. I _wrote_ it.

Ha, feel the wrath of my almighty logic ... That doesn't look nearly as cool in print, does it?

_Just a question, why in the name of Merlin do you keep bolding your name?_

You're just jealous because I've harnessed the power of **BOLD**.

_Not really, no. I was just asking because it looks ridiculous._

Your face is ridiculous. Heh.

_I'm going to pretend you never told a 'your face' joke..._

Suit yourself.

...

**RON RON RON RON RON! **

I might have to do that again, I haven't got a clue why I didn't discover **BOLD** sooner.

_**Get over it, Ron, I've already been doing it for the past several chapters.  
**_

Really? ...Figures. Dammit, Hermione!

_**I cannot imagine how you didn't notice.**_

You were yelling at me (in CAPITALS, thank you very much); hence, I was ignoring you.

... NOT THAT I USUALLY DO THAT (... phew, I think she bought it... OW! Not the hair, woman! — slash that, she definitely didn't)

Ah, well.

**RON RON RON RON RONNNNN!**

That was very inspirational, wasn't it? I thought so.

Well, then, unless you're unbelievably incompetent or you simply spaced out and are now quite surprised to find yourself at the end of the Lesson, I hope you've allowed some interesting and informative stuff to sink into your brains... hopefully from this book.

Unfortunately, having your best hero-type person —_ thanks, mate, it's truly an honor to be your 'best person'_ — ahem, stay/live at your house is one of those things you learn how to deal with 'through experience' (I hate when that happens, I'm really sorry), as they haven't got any 'best mate living at your house' simulators out yet.

Ron Weasley, Master of All Things **Bold **(_oh Merlin, you're never going to shut up about that, are you?_), signing out... erm, well, you know, until after Quidditch. Yeah. Bye.

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_A/N: Eh, not so sure about this chapter, either. I'm truly sorry for the two week (*cringes*) delay; I've honestly barely had time to sleep let alone write. So, thanks for reading! _

_Ooh! What's that shiny green button? You should press it and find out ;)_

_I mean that entirely seriously. I'm not really pleased with this chapter (I've been pressed for time, as I said before, and really wanted to get it out to you guys) and I plan to make major edits to it. However, before I do so, it would be UNBELIEVABLY helpful if you could give me some constructive criticism and suggestions so I can make really good improvements.  
_

_- Thanks so much for sticking with me, Zooey :)_


	6. Lesson 5, part one

**A/N:** What is this?! Zooey actually updated?!?!

I know, I know: where the hell have I been for the past few months? My answer: working my ass off at school. Honestly, I've barely had the time to sleep, let alone write. Of course, I am really, really sorry there was so much of a delay between chapters. Please forgive me!

Anyway, this is dedicated to all of the lovely people who have reviewed this story and, more recently, urged me to find the time to add on to it (especially Freak, whose PM basically pushed me to get this out today [it would have been out yesterday, but whenever I opened , my internet would crash])

**Disclaimer:** The rumors are true. I am Harry Potter.

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**Lesson 5: Angst, Angst, Baby (Part I)**

**

* * *

**

Hello, all.

It might seem strange that I am saying 'hello' in the middle of my book (because, of course, it is so unbelievably riveting that you've been unable to put it down... that, or you've got a permanent sticking charm on your hands), but I've got a perfectly good reason.

I kind of forgot I was writing this until Hermione oh-so-kindly reminded me.

Actually, the conversation more like went: "Ron, we've all finished dinner now. Want to go back and work on the book?"

What can I say? Time flies when you're eating pudding.

Now that I'm back, and in tip-top writing condition, I think that this would be a good time to remind you that sidekicking is not a job for pansies. This is serious business. In fact, a good number of people would not be able to adeptly deal with what I'm about to cover.

Got that? Good, because I'm not in the mood to repeat myself.

Back to what I was saying. As a sidekick, not only will you have to deal with—and, best-case scenario, survive—a myriad of Dangerous Situations (see Lesson One in case you've forgotten already, you're mad like Hermione and think you're going to be tested on this, or have since reading it smoked floo powder), you'll also have the supreme pleasure of enduring the wrath of your moody best mate.

Having your friend bite your head off—_figuratively_, of course (literally, I imagine, would be rather like hearing Percy sing; that is, very, very, painful)—is like realizing that, not only do you have gum on your shoe, but you've also got an exam (that you've not prepared for at all) in three minutes. And you're dating Lavender Brown. I pity the poor sod who this actually happens to.

_**Hypocrite**_.

Oh shut it. You know you love me.

_**I'm starting not to.**_

Can I get back to writing now? Much as I love exchanging such endearing compliments with you, I really must be getting on with this.

**_Sorry. Go on, then._**

No, really, I have to—Wait, what? Did you just—? Cool.

I know I may have never said this before, but everyone needs a hobby.

_As a matter of fact you _have_ said that before._

Come off it, when have I done?

_**Just yesterday, actually. When we caught you making origami hats for the gnomes, remember?  
**_

I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Those were _stars_, not hats. And they were for _Mum_ as a Christmas present, not for the bloody _gnomes_! Merlin. And they say you're the intelligent one...

_Anyway_, as I was saying before some inconsiderate people decided to ruin my rather inspired introduction: everyone needs a hobby. Some collect stamps; others have a passion for Oriental cooking; a rare breed of daredevil trains hamsters; some read too much for their own bloody good (ahem); and others still knit balaclavas for mice. You get the idea.

Harry, when not saving the world or playing Quidditch, engages in unadulterated angst.

I swear, he could have his own hardcore band or something (with me slapping some bass, of course—_Ron, you don't play the bleeding bass_... Yeah, but they didn't know that, did they? Thanks a lot, mate.)

He does this quite a bit, too. I'd reckon he plans his day around anticipated mercuriality.

In fact, here's a glimpse into Harry's planner:

**A(nother) Day in the Life of Harry Potter**

_Ron, you know full well I haven't _got_ a planner, and even if I had, I wouldn't write THAT at the top_.

It's called Artistic License, Harry. I'll have you know that I've it on good authority that there are several people (namely, crazed females, which is never a bad thing—_That's what you think_) who would kill—or at least seriously maim—to have this information.

~*~

Wake up.

Rescue [insert cute/fuzzy/random animal here... not literally, 'course] from tree (or any hard-to-reach place, really).

Angst.

Shower.

Breakfast.

Angst.

Vanquish evil wizard.

Go to work.

Lunch.

A touch of Angst (in capitals).

Save the world (again).

Come back from work.

Tea.

Brood (for variety, y'know?).

Come back from work.

Dinner.

_Snog Ginny _(OI! _What, it is MY planner, innit?_).

Play Chess With Ron/Bother Hermione (my favorite time of day—OUCH! Merlin, woman!).

You guessed it: Angst.

Squeeze in another heroic act or two (if time).

Bed.

~*~

_That is the most ludicrous thing I've ever seen._

See what I mean about the negativity? He's out of control!

Obviously, looking at the astronomical amount of teenage moodiness going on there, we (Hermione and I) have our work cut out for us.

This is the tactical part of your education. You need to learn and master how to (more or less) pacify someone whose mood swings are more violent than an angry Hippogriff. Actually, it's a bit like babysitting a ticked off Crookshanks (only involving a lot less orange).

Now, there are four different ways to go about this:

(1) Trying to head him off before he really gets into it (I think Hermione's managed this once, and he was still in a foul mood—don't rely too much on this one. Or at all, really).

(2) Snapping back at him.

(3) Mollifying him (This has about a 50/50 chance of success).

(4) Doing something I like to call **Insert Ginny**. (This works like a charm that's been cast by someone not me).

The first three are rather self-explanatory. If they're not, I'm sure if you ask them nicely enough, they'll spell it out for you. The last, and most effective one requires a bit more clarification. I'll give you an example.

(In case you haven't cottoned on, this part here is the example.)

_Harry shuts himself in the attic to brood after overhearing a conversation that suggested he was being possessed by You-Know-Who (he wasn't, just for the record)._

This is where you use this remarkable strategy. **Insert Ginny**. Problem solved.

For the dimmer of you out there (no offense), **Insert Ginny** is not a spell, so I don't suggest yelling it unless you want to look like completely out of your tree.

Now that you know how the practical works, I'll give you the theory.

This works because Ginny is about as stubborn as Harry is, and, where Hermione and I have learned to let him alone for a bit, she gets on his case and doesn't allow him to be a moody prat.

The only hitch in trying this spectacular method for yourselves is that you're going to have to find your own Ginny, 'cos I don't feel much like lending out my sister like some library book. You see, we've only got one of her, and, no matter how annoying she can be (Hey!), I think it would be safe to assume that, if I did launch a Ginny Rental Service, my parents would murder me without a second thought, bring me back to give me a good telling off, and then off me again, just for good measure.

It should be fairly blatant that, if that were to happen, my day would be pretty much ruined.

Not to mention, who would teach you all this stuff then?

* * *

**A/N:** It's still a bit rough, and I'm sure there are some grammar errors sprinkled in there (please let me know if you spot any!), but I felt completely horrible for not updating in so long, so I'm just releasing it as is. I'll probably edit for small mistakes later. In the mean time, however, what did you think? Like it, hate it? Tell me in a review! (I've just done the math, and if every person who has this story on alert reviewed every chapter once, I'd have around four hundred reviews... hmm... what a novel idea...)


	7. Lesson 5, part two

_A/N: Hello, mateys! Thank you, my ducklings, for all the lovely reviews and words of nicety and such. Woohoo, I've got around 3500 hits for this — something I'm ridiculously proud of. Anyway, as you can see, I have updated. That was snappy, wasn't it? I thought so._

**

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Lesson 5: Angst, Angst, Baby (Part II)**

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_January, 1997_

The Hogwarts library is vastly over-rated.

Don't get me wrong: I was well aware of this before. If I've learned anything at this school (and I like to think that I have), it's that only bad things lurk in libraries, like sexually-repressed librarians (and, really, only someone really barking would find Filch attractive, so that suggests a certain amount of mental imbalance as well); pale, pointy-faced eavesdroppers; and depraved Eastern European, hooked-nosed, Quidditch-playing—you get the idea. It's no place for those of sound morals and senses.

But _no_, I had to go and disregard my instincts and ideals for the sake of my sanity and overall health and condition (not to mention world peace and all that). I'm too damn altruistic for my own good.

As I should have expected, my noble self-sacrifice has been to no end. As of yet I've not received any sort of trophy, plaque, life-size statue, epic ode, or... well, any recognition at all (okay, that's not entirely true; Madam Pince _did_ glare at me something awful when I walked in here, but that wasn't really the acknowledgment I was shooting for). I haven't even managed to achieve what I came into this blasted place to do. It's times like this that make a bloke wonder why he bothered going through the trouble of getting out of bed that morning. Oh wait, that's right, today was Waffle Day. _Completely_ worth it.

I think I'm going to have a therapeutic internal rant now—relieve my frustration and all that. We don't need _two_ moody buggers running around.

How bleeding typical, though. I swear, I must've done something ridiculously crummy in a past life or something. I mean, honestly, the _one time_ I intentionally go to the library for reasons that are entirely unrelated to some mystery Harry's bent on solving or one of Herm—_her_ pre-exam fits of madness, or… No, wait. Those are basically the only reasons I ever venture in here...

What? It's not exactly the most _pleasant _place in the castle. And it's most certainly not in the running for _Better Moats and Castles_ 'most effective interior design' award… Come to think of it, Madam Pince doesn't do much for it either, aesthetically or environmentally.

Anyway, back to what I was thinking before (Godric's socks, I have a wretched attention span), it shouldn't have been such a surprise that the one damn time I put my trust in this famed center of stuffy librarians, books, and other torture devices, it does me absolutely no good whatsoever. At all. Nada. Zilch. And all other words that mean "completely unhelpful".

Well, I s'pose one upshot of this horrid and entirely pointless excursion is that it at least got me away from Mr. 'tornado mood' Potter, who's in a snit for one reason or another. The worst bit about this one is (relatively speaking, of course; it's not as if any of Harry's moods are exactly rays of sunshine in my days), not only is the library being superbly uninformative on the subject, Ginny told us at breakfast she was planning spending the day with that git Thomas (and, that 'there's nothing I can bloody do about it, so suck it up and go bother someone else for once'—she's about as testy as Harry sometimes, I swear), so I can't enlist her to pull him (Harry, not Dean-jailbaiter-Thomas) out of whatever mood he's sunk into. Absolutely no consideration for others (namely, me), that one.

What upside was there to this, again? Oh yeah, _silence_. Lovely silence. Everything here is perfectly, _fantastically_ silent (if a bit dusty and booky). Argh, what the hell was that? As I was saying: completely silent, until that shrimpy twit over there just wandered in (what is this place, anyway, a daycare center?), sniveling like some congested flobberworm (and twice as useless). As a Prefect, I really should go over there and tell him to go and get sorted out by Pomfrey; the rest of us in this accursed establishment haven't done anything to deserve his one-man bogey symphony.

No. Enough of your benevolence, Ron; nothing good comes of it.

Right.

Someone needs to make it well known and clear, to prevent any more poor sods such as myself from coming in here for no payoff, that the Hogwarts library—home to more than two-effing-_million_ books (according to She-Who-Snogged-Krum-And-Now-Must-Not-Be-Named)—is utterly devoid of self-help manuals. That explains quite a bit, actually. Snape, for example. But you'd _think_, with a place as stuffed with Slytherins as this one is, that they'd at least invest in some decent anger management texts. For the good of the rest of us, at the very least.

I'm not even looking for one for myself (unless they've got some guide to ridding oneself of clingy girlfriends stashed in one of these dusty shelves). My generosity bites me in the arse again! At the rate I'm going, I'm just going to have a look around for a support group and be done with this whole sorry mess… "I'm Harry Potter, and the only emotion I _don't_ repress is anger." "Hi, Harry." Oh yes, that would go over _brilliantly_. Never mind, then.

Why do I bother?

I can't go back to the dormitory yet. With my luck, I'll probably come back to him still in a right state. There's just no reasoning with him when he's like this—especially when he won't tell me what the hell happened to make him so angry. This morning when I returned from a very satisfying, waffle-filled meal (which, because he's completely off his rocker, he excused himself from early), I found him grumbling and brooding about in the dormitory. I asked him what the problem was and he just glowered at me. I told him I'd talk to him when he stopped PMS-ing, and then came here.

Uh oh, Madam Pince is stalking in here (she looks downright scary when she does that). She probably thinks I've been loitering here too long and I must be defiling her precious books or something—or, even more absurd: that I want to _check one out_.

…

I apprehensively return to the Dormitory sometime later. I don't know whether to expect a war zone or a peace summit. I stand outside the door for a minute and can't help but think I should have brought a helmet or something; just in case.

"Where've you been, mate?" he asks quietly (his _I know I've acted rotten all day and I feel bad about it, but I can't help that I got a double helping of adolescent moodiness and have a bald psychopath after my skin _voice) when I finally muster enough pluck to push open the door (employing some really ace Auror-type moves, might I add.) He's giving me a rather odd look, so I stop crouching and stick my wand back in my pocket.

"In the library," I answer evasively. I'm not sure if he's truly calmed down yet. (Honestly, if anyone needs a diary, this bloke does.)

He throws me a look dripping with irony, which I don't much appreciate, thanks. "No, really."

"I'm dead serious." I can't exactly blame him for not believing me. I have been rather… vocal about my aversion to all things homework- and library- related.

"Why? You never go in there, especially now that H—" I shut him up with a glare (not that he responds all that docilely—he's rolling his eyes now). _Nobody_, not even those protected under the sacred code of best mate-ship, is allowed to speak the name of… Yeah. That one.

"Studying." It's not like I'm going to tell him what I was _really_ up to. I would very much like to keep my limbs attached to my body, thanks. But still, even I want to snort at myself. What kind of rubbish excuse was _that_? Only someone sensationally dim would believe such a porkie as that.

"You're a dreadful liar." Thanks, because you're a simply spectacular one. "Just… tell me you weren't with _her_ in there" He doesn't need to explain who 'her' is... But really, is the barely-repressed look of repulsion all that necessary? "'Cos having that disturbing image in my brain whenever I'm there would put me right of my revising or whatever, and I don't want _your_ out of control hormones to lower my marks."

Now that's just unfair... I was down there for his sake, after all. He should be on his knees—preferably bearing a plate of waffles or something—beseeching for my forgiveness.

But, as I mentioned before, I can't tell him this (have you _seen_ him duel? I want none of that, thanks very much), so I do the only thing I could possibly do in a situation such as this one. I fling my pillow at him. He, laughing, dodges it. Thank Agrippa he's back to normal (well, for Harry, that is; as I said before, everything's relative).

* * *

Clearly, my years at Hogwarts were very taxing on my mental and emotional health. There could be lasting damages, you know.

_That would explain quite a bit..._

The important things to take away from this are (besides the whole library thing—remember that, kids. Dead useless, that thing is. Not to mention positively teeming with unsavory company):

- no matter what shite your mate puts you through, chances are, he'll calm down eventually (that, or he'll explode—either works)

- when he does this, he usually feels pretty rotten about his behavior, and apologizes

- he'll also probably save your skin to make up for it

- while he's being utterly disagreeable, you get loads of Me Time (something you'll really come to treasure in retrospect when you're shoved into a tent for months with your him and select others)

- his moods almost never interfere with Waffle Day

- it's important to think of decent excuses _before_ you have to give them

- when you don't know what's wrong, just let him stew for a while (like when you bake a cake and have to let it alone for a bit so it'll cool down, and you can eat it... same concept, just, you know, minus the eating part. That's generally frowned upon in today's society.)

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_A/N: Before you review and ask me why I didn't include a scene of ALLCAPS!Harry, I'll answer you here: I think we've all seen enough of that, haven't we? If you're really feeling deprived, check out book numero five; it's got loads of delicious capital letters. I've determined that this fic will end up around 10-12 chapters in total. Oh yeah, as I mentioned in my profile, which you may or may not have seen, I am thinking about going back and doing some minor edits and such to prior chapters—you know, snip out the repetitive and sucky bits, and stick in some new stuff. What do you all think of that idea?  
_

_Reviews are like pie. _

_... I like pie._

_Coming up: The Funnier, The Better (humor and how to use it)__  
_


	8. Lesson 6

_A/N: Out today, as promised. Thank you so, so much to the people who have left me such lovely reviews—you guys are great :)_

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**Lesson Six: The Funnier, The Better**

* * *

As anyone in a stable mental condition (no offense, Harry, mate) is well aware, one of the staples of sidekick-dom is humor.

Well if you hadn't known that, you do now. Don't you feel cleverer?

Now, as this is a subject that I consider myself an expert in, I'm going to seem more sure of what I'm saying. Don't be alarmed. It's been known to happen, even if the instances are few and far-between.

Here goes...

Being a sidekick is in many ways similar to being a banana. You're constantly in danger of being sliced up and served on a festive fruit platter as a delicious snack; you're the butt of a lot of jokes; and, no matter what, you and your best mate (an apple in this scenario, or some other breed of obscenely popular fruit) always end up stem-deep some sort of trouble, which for the sake of this extended metaphor, I shall refer to as a tart (not _that_ sort of tart, get your minds out of the gutter).

However, indisputably, in addition to the obvious health benefits, bananas are probably the funniest fruits in existence (besides kumquats of course, but those are just freaks of nature; best not to speak of them). They're just effing weird (not to mention suggestively shaped—I mean seriously, they're asking for it). You, the sidekick, are also low fat and one of the funniest fruits in existence.

Erm, allow me to rephrase that, yeah? (Meanwhile, just pretend that never happened.)

If sidekick training were to come with a form of some sort, it would doubtlessly have a list of prerequisites stapled to the back. Thank Merlin it doesn't; I hate paperwork. You didn't really need to know that, did you? However, you should have by now gotten the general thrust of what tools you need to possess in your proverbial arsenal: that is, a fragrant potpourri (preferably not vanilla, as that makes my nose itch) of bravery, loyalty, and madness (shaken, not stirred), topped off with minimal frontal lobe activity, etc.

Basically, you need to be me.

Nevertheless, one of the most important skills you need to be a sidekick—or even a worthwhile human being, for that matter—is a decent sense of humor. In fact, the only place in the world besides History of Magic where I reckon a sense of humor's not a necessary part of existence is the Department of International Magical Cooperation. But then again, if you're working there, you're basically a lost cause anyway.

**A Decent Sense of Humor** (noun) - Not only the ability to identify and appreciate comedy when it's dancing in front of you in a three piece suit and a fedora (if this rudimentary skill is beyond you, I highly suggest hopping over to St. Mungo's and getting that checked out), but also the capacity to make up some of your own.

_Synonym: Ron Weasley; Antonym: Prof. Binns_

You've got a tough job: not only have you got to help save the world (or whatever your gig is), you have to make everyone laugh his or her arse off in the process. Given this tall order, it should be pretty blatant then that you need to be competent in telling your own jokes (good ones, mind you—especially if you ever plan on getting a girlfriend, but more on that later).

Not to be arrogant, but I've been rather successful at all of those points (saving mankind, being a laugh, and getting myself a girlfriend to boot). This is because, in addition to my charms, good looks, and intelligence, I'm also quite funny (you can stop now, Harry; that bit wasn't a joke). Hence, I am the designated comedian of our troop.

What's that make Hermione, then?

That's easy: she's the smart, pretty one. Obviously.

_I thought I was the pretty one._

I can hardly breathe from laughing, Harry.

But anyway, whenever Harry's acting especially Harry-ish (refer to previous chapter for painful clarification), or Hermione is having all the good humor of a blast-ended skrewt in a wooden crate, it's my job to step in and lighten the mood. Sometimes, my wit can be dead useful for other things too, beyond heartening the spirits of others. I am very multifunctional. _Who would've guessed?_

**Alternative Uses for Humor (or, Practical Application for Sarcasm):**

1) I've inadvertently predicted a great many things using this comedic tactic (Sadly, when I actually _try_ to do so—predict the future, that is—it never works out quite as well. That, in addition to other factors, such as lack of motivation, thoroughly explains my rotten Divination marks.)

2) When you're not using your humor to perk others up or foresee unlikely coincidences, it can be wicked helpful for relieving frustration.

Sure, you might've cracked a few knee-slappers in your time (OK, I said it, George… now cough up), but like with any talent, you need to hone your wisecracking skills. It's quite a lucky thing you have me here to teach you, eh? (Just nod and agree. I have a terribly fragile self-esteem.)

As always, you should first know what to avoid. Thankfully, these 'Percy-isms', for lack of a better term, are quite easily recognizable. I'll list them for you here.

**What Not to Do:**

1) Puns. If you want to impress someone with your knowledge of homonyms, have a nice chat with a three year old.

2) The same goes for any sentence involving the words 'your mum', 'your face', or any other random object that you can pair with a possessive pronoun. (These arrangements are only acceptable in very rare instances, and if and only if the speaker knows how to use them properly. Most don't. Use at your own discretion; it's your social life on the line.)

3) Your face (just thought I'd stick that in there). Ha ha. OK, I'm done.

4) Potions jokes. You know the kind I'm talking about.

5) 'Knock, knock's. No, just no.

6) Jokes that require a large windup for an unsatisfying finish. These really take the biscuit as far as annoyingness goes.

**Other things you should avoid, if for no more reason than for the sake of your mental health:**

1) People who tell these sorts of jokes, and think it's terrifically impressive (classic amateur's mistake: confusing naffness for comedic genius). Any of these poor excuses for humor are surefire signs that the failed joke-teller is trying to compensate for something, but is going about it in an altogether foolish manner. You're only embarrassing yourself.

2) Laughing at these sorry excuses for wit. It'll only make you look like a prat with poor taste.

Suggestive euphemisms (a personal favorite of mine), however, _are_ condoned (and even encouraged). Viva innuendo. You'll find a great many opportunities for these in classes such as Divination ("Uranus") and Care of Magical Creatures ("Could you care for _my_ magical creature?")

If you do manage to engineer a serviceable jest of your own, there's no need to make a song and dance about it. Doing so is downright poor thinking, not to mention pathetic. If the joke's a good as you think it is, chances are, people are going to laugh. If they're not, then either you're surrounded by a very unfortunate humorless bunch, or it's not all that funny and you look like an utter fool for being the only one in stitches.

As with Unforgivables, with sarcasm, you really have to _mean_ it. Or at least appear to. That's where all the magic comes from; pasting on a straight face and spewing out irony. Usually this is used to mock (in either a nasty or affectionate way) idiocy or just to mess with people's heads (which is great fun, let me tell you).

Now, you lot have a go of it. Put what you just learned to practice.

All in all, if you make a concerted effort at it, soon you'll be telling jokes like the best of them. And when you're in a fix or some other miserable situation (eg. a tent of some sort, or in Divination class), it can really be a morale booster. Your friends will appreciate it.

_That's awfully presumptuous of you.  
_

Harry?

_Yeah, Ron?_

Bugger off, would you?

Sometimes, however, your mates are too damn irritating for their own good. Let them flounder. Don't waste your humor on the likes of ungrateful little berks.

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_A/N: Like it? Hate it? Tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is fantastic :) I've been pretty sick lately (just a cold, but it sucks nonetheless), but I hear reviews have healing properties... ;)  
_

_Only a couple more chapters to go! *tear*_


	9. Lesson 7, part one

_A/N: I haven't forgotten about you! Same as before, I have had hardly any time for myself to breathe, let alone write, recently. Anyway, I hope this makes up somewhat for the wait. Part two should come sometime soon, I'm not sure when, though. I'd also like to thank everyone who has continued to read & review, and who patiently waited as I was absent once again for an inordinately long period of time.  
_

_The inspiration for this chapter is a review from a while back by Kill4Karamel. _

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**Lesson Seven: Not Getting the Girl, and Other Clichés (Part I)**

Fact: Clichés are tremendously overused.

I'm not having you on with that, by the way—even Hermione says so, and she's much cleverer than you. And probably a better kisser, too.

As it happens, a lot of clichés—particularly those having to do with sidekicks—aren't remotely factual (for most of us, that is; every group has its weirdos). And yet, they (the rumors, not the weirdos) continue to spread, misleading people all over the… well, in a lot of places. This is primarily on account of three things*:

*There may be more than what I've listed, but none come to mind presently.

1. OPMD (_Over-Protective Mum Disorder_): Symptoms include extreme mollycoddling, spying, and warning children away from pursuing rewarding, if dangerous, careers. Chronic and tragically prevalent (not to mention maddening). May or may not be contagious.

2. Those sorry sods the clichés actually apply to, who consistently delude the gullible masses with their blistering patheticness and uncontrollable need to blab about their problems. Don't be one of those people.

3. Bitter wankers who see it fit to fashion a bunch of vicious untruths to tell all of their equally unpleasant friends in order to bolster their dismal senses of self-worth. Sadly, this sort of nasty business is rife in all highly prestigious occupations (including sidekicking, but I'll get to that in a minute).

Fact: A distressing number of people choose to act in a way that suggests that common sense is the leading cause of death in the modern world. These people are strikingly dim. Do try to avoid them.

With all of these sources, it's understandable how these rumors/clichés begin to spread faster than Dragon Pox in a crowded lift. And soon, everyone is under the _entirely _false (not to mention absurd) impression that you spend your weekends prancing about in tight leather trousers, lip-syncing to Celestina Warbeck.

_Now where have I heard that one before?_

Don't even go there, mate. You know that Rita Skeeter is not a trusted news source. She doesn't know what she saw.

[Note to younger readers (and some older ones as well): you'd do well to remember to never underestimate the odds of your doing impressively daft things when intoxicated by Firewhisky—particularly in the presence of a camera.]

Anyway, as I mentioned before, the respected name of the sidekick business has received a triple helping of slander with a side of ridicule over the years. The injustices I'm about to whinge to you about (in a very authoritative and informative way, mind) are the most prevalent and particularly foul delusions you might hear about. In fact, you've probably heard some of them already. I'm going to assume you didn't believe them though, as they don't offer much in the way of incentive for entering this trade.

**Common Sidekick Misconception #1:**_ The sidekick is always the one saddled with the wussiest bits of nomenclature (e.g. Watson, Gabby, or Robin, to name a few)._

Counter Example: Harry, Ron(ald). Enough said.

This is just one example of a prevailing 'sidekicks are a bunch of nancies' theme. Get used to being asked all sorts of idiotic and pointless questions like "Does he bring you along out of pity?" or "Do you have to fetch his tea and stuff?"

We are many things—chums, accomplices, amigos, shrinks—but we are _not_ bloody interns.

**Common Sidekick Misconception #2:**_ The purpose of the sidekick is to make the hero look good. _

Counterexample(s): "Don't worry, mate, the midget-with-glasses look is very popular with girls"; "Did you just make yourself look ridiculous intentionally?"; "Oi, four-eyes!"; "What do you mean, 'you can't reach it'? Just how short are you, anyway?"; "Are you sure you want to go out with him? I mean, he's kind of broody and whatnot."

_Why the hell am I friends with you, anyway?_

Because I'm funny, clever, and handsome, that's why.

Duh.

**Common Sidekick Misconception #3:**_ Sidekicks are uncommonly stupid. _

Counterexample (sort of): Stupidity and "failing to apply oneself" (M. McGonagall) are entirely different things.

I honestly have no idea where people get these barmy notions.

**Common Sidekick Misconception #4:**_ The sidekick never gets the girl. _

Counterexample: Hermione, Lavender, that third year who stalked me for the better part of sixth year.

However, all rumors, even that one about you and that Hufflepuff with the unibrow in the Trophy Room, have to start somewhere.

It's a sad truth that not all sidekicks are as mind-blowingly attractive as myself. I'm sure many of you have loads of other redeeming qualities (such as integrity, honesty, skill at hamster-training, and all that rubbish), but the fact is, your looks aren't going to get you very far.

OK, most of what you just read was complete and utter tosh. Still, beyond the bullshit, there were some very critical kernels of truth buried in that paragraph, and those kernels will make up the stew of this lesson. You must be tremendously thrilled—or hungry; I know I am with all this talk of kernels and whatnot.

The point is: it is fairly common knowledge that, when it comes to romance, the sidekick is basically shunted to the side and forgotten about as the hero gets all the action. This, my friends, is not (entirely) true, though it has been known to occur with shocking regularity. The important thing to remember is the early bird may get the worm, but the second hinkypunk gets the porridge… and this analogy made a hell of a lot more sense in my head (but then again, so do most things I do or say).

_That explains quite a bit._

Yes, Potter, because you _always_ think before you speak.

* * *

_A/N: Cookies to whoever can guess what the flashback will be (approximately) ;). Do I still got it? Let me know!_

_(8/4/10) Thanks everyone who alerted me of the two number 3's issue! It's been fixed.  
_


	10. Lesson 7, part two

A/N: Zooey's Fun Fact of the Day: Czechoslovakia is no longer a country (for more info on it's new state of being-two separate countries-please refer to a handy atlas), and hasn't been since they actually made new episodes of _Full House_ and everything was 'rad'. But try telling that to my dad.

I'd like to thank y'all oodles kaboodles for the reviews (my goal is to reach at minimum 200 with this chappie, and that's all I'm going to say on the matter).This didn't come out as soon as expected, mostly because I had a crapload of final exams, APs, and a two-week trip. All of that swallowed up most of my writing time. But the good news? School's out! I'm back from France, and now I'm good to go writing-wise. Updates will be much quicker now.

* * *

**Lesson Seven: Not Getting the Girl, and Other Clichés (Part II)

* * *

**

_January, 1997_

If you think asking out a girl is tricky, picture asking out a girl who makes you look like you've all the cleverness and sex appeal of bat shit. Now, in addition to that, whenever you're around this girl you inexplicably always manage to say _exactly the wrong thing_.

Example: "Don't feel too rotten about losing the chess match, Hermione. I mean, you're dead awful at plenty of other things too—take Quidditch, for example…"

Of course, I only ever _realize_ that I've gone and been an insensitive twat when she's in a mood with me the next day—(something she does with all the subtlety of a pissed dragon, might I add: "Could you please pass the jam, Harry? It's next to _his_ elbow")—and I've not done anything else marvelously idiotic to deserve it. Usually it only lasts a day or two; my marks slip a bit, Harry's more awkward than usual, and then everything's spick and span again.

It's been two months.

I'll probably fail Charms at this rate.

But that's not the point.

This is not how it's supposed to happen. Believe me, I'm a romance expert—not by my own doing. Lavender had me take a look at some of her lovey-dovey novels with her once (she called it "bonding", I called it "inhumane"—not to her face, of course, but quite loudly in my head to the tune of an old Scottish drinking song.) She laps that shit up like it's custard tart. (Side thought: There was an unusually muscular Wizard on the front. I've not yet worked out if she's trying to make a point. I'm lousy at these mad bird things.) Anyway, according to these books (Hermione likes books—SHUT UP, BRAIN!), a bloke—often heavily muscled (I'm sure there's a way to work around that)—and a girl fight an awful lot (check), but despite that, are incredibly attracted to each other (check for me, and because I'm an optimist, I'll check for Hermione as well), and go through a lot of pointless drama (check? I think yes) before snogging like hell in front of a sunset, in a castle, in the stable (don't ask), or some other clichéd spot of romantic mischief.

This is where it all goes wrong. I've got the first two; more pointless drama than a Hagrid-sized bowl of porridge; I even have a damn castle! What I just don't _get_ is why Hermione hasn't grabbed me in the corridors and begun snogging the snot out of me yet.

I explained all of this to Harry (with the aid of a heavy metaphor that he saw through right off the mark) and he said, "It's that sort of thinking that's got you making a mess of things—well that, and the fact that you've _got a girlfriend_."

So not the point. Fat load of help he is.

"This isn't about me!" I say quickly—no doubt _completely_ fooling him. Harry rolls his eyes.

"Oh, sorry, how stupid of me. It's _Seán's_ thinking that's effed up his chances with _Hermia_. The fact that his face is more or less always attached to _Lilac's_ doesn't help much either, though."

My brow furrows. "… I still don't get it."

"Fighting plus attraction plus castle doesn't equal heavy snogging, mate."

Well that's hardly fair. "You forgot the pointless drama—there's loads of that, too!"

"Oh, well that changes _everything_," Harry says, rolling his eyes.

Honestly, I don't even know why I bothered asking _him_ for advice—he's not exactly the Casanova of the castle (even _he's _got a castle! Did everyone else already know about the castle thing?) He's more pathetic than I am! I mean, after the _Cho Fiasco of '95_, he's done nothing of the romantic sort, unless he's been seeing Neville in secret or something… bad mental images. I'm not even sure who he fancies at this point.

… And what kind of best mate would I be if I don't invade his privacy and find out? It'll distract me from the god-awful mess that is my love life.

"Harry?"

"Mmm?"

He's reading again. He does that an awful lot nowadays—that, and stalk Malfoy. And that's just bloody unnatural, that is (the reading, though I s'pose the stalking is a fair bit bizarre, as well, but that's closer to Typical Harry Behavior). I've got to tell him to kick that habit soon—as a concerned friend, of course.

"Who do you fancy?"

"That's nice, Ron."

Why do I bother?

"I thought you'd like to know that I'm a closet transvestite, and every night I dance the macarena as a part of an ceremony in honor of the Giant Squid—starkers."

Harry says nothing, but turns a page. Some fifth year I'm certain I've seen around before, however, gets up and yells, "I KNEW IT!" before scampering out of the room. _Fantastic_.

Another go: "HARRY!"

This time he looks up from his stupid Potions book. "This isn't about your off socks again, is it?" he asks in a weary, nervous sort of voice.

What is he on ab—oh, that. I thought I told him that that was strictly a Topic for the Dormitory Only (TDO).

In a whisper (so hopefully he'll recognize that we really ought not to be speaking of this... ever), I say: "No, I got that all sorted out—Fred and George jinxed them. Listen mate, d'you fancy anyone?"

"…"

He's not meeting my eyes. His cheeks look a bit pinkish, too.

... This is kind of fun.

"You do!" It's all I can do to not stand up and do an ad hoc Triumphant Ron Dance. "Please tell me it's Lavender—if it is, feel free to 'lure her away from me' with your masculine wiles."

Harry's giving me one of his maddening _you've-completely-lost-it-haven't-you_ looks again. "No, you can keep her, mate."

Damn.

"Guess who!" A falsely high-pitched voice cries as someone clamps their hands over my eyes. They're not Lavender's: hers are all smooth with that weird smelling lotion she uses. These ones are rough with calluses.

"Ginny."

She laughs and plops down across from me, next to Harry. He's reading again (Merlin, he got back to that quickly)… or at least staring at his book. He's an odd one, that one.

"So, Ron," starts Ginny, and I can hear a smile in her voice. This can't be good. "What's this I hear about dancing starkers?"

* * *

OK, so Harry and I were both fairly pathetic then. But the point is I was _less_ pathetic; I mean, at least I had a girlfriend. All right, she was clingy, jealous, and I didn't actually fancy her all that much, but it was something.

And for the record: Hermione did end up snogging the hell out of me. In a castle.

I am so the man.

_Ginny and I started snogging, too, Ron._

Ugh, don't remind me.

—_In a castle._

Damn you.

The fact remains that _you_ had to grab _her_—and everyone knows that's desperation incarnate.

_You sound like _Witch Weekly_._

How would you know? Do you read it?

To my readers: I think I've made my point.

To the Boy-Who-Had-a-Wussy-Name: Four-eyes.

* * *

A/N: I can just see 'in a castle' being the new 'in bed'. i.e. Fortune cookie: Someone important is waiting for you. Me: _—In a castle! *cracks up* _

(To the whoms who may be concerned: I actually love the name Harry.)


	11. Lesson 8, part one

_A/N: It's Saturday, as promised. (See? I'm getting better at this!)_

* * *

**Lesson Eight: Know Thy Press (Part I)  
**

* * *

Sidekicking and Public Relations have a rocky marriage, but really, it can be boiled down to Way You Really Ought to Behave and a Way You Only Have an Excuse to Act if You've Been _Imperiused. _Basically any other approach will get you arrested—that, or a private ward at St. Mungo's.

I'm suspect that the biggest press releases about you right now are your weekly letters to Mum and Dad (_Breaking News: Jimmy O'Connor Failed Last History of Magic Exam, "Should've seen it coming," says O'Connor_). If that is the case (and if it's not, why haven't you used your celebrity status to promote this brilliant work of genius?), the above advice may seem rather irrelevant to your dull life. That will change—if you don't go and botch things up, of course.

This is because, as it turns out, saving the world is a pretty big deal. As a result, when all you _really_ want to do is have a nice kip and eat some decent food (er, that's not to say that those charred fish and mushrooms weren't _divine_, of course… heh), a herd of reporters with a lot of questions and no concept of personal space will inescapably decide to make life (more) difficult for you.

Here is how you _shouldn't_ deal with such a situation:

**Insensitive Berk #1:** Mr. Weasley, you have been on the run for the past year—

**Person-Who-Really-Ought-to-Keep-His-Trap-Shut: **No shit.

**Insensitive Berk #1: **… Uhm, right. Could you please tell our readers how it feels knowing your quest has finally arrived at its end?

**PWROKHTS:** If you don't budge over and let me at those bloody fritters within the next five seconds, I am going to blast your sorry arse back to the First Goblin War of 1532.

But that's just common sense.

In this Lesson, we (I say 'we' to give you the impression that you are at all important in this process, which you're not) will cover sudden fame and what to do with it; how to deal with nasty leeches (journalists); and the proper way to slice a rutabaga.

Now, like I said before: helping rid the earth of megalomaniacal wannabe-dictators gets you a fair bit of attention. You can expect to receive:

a. Fan mail (sometimes with… interesting gifts from overeager females. No, I haven't worn them.)

b. Ad campaigns

c. Free merchandise (for example, a lifetime supply of _Wonder Witch_ products—cheers, George)

d. A bunch of people who know your name (or at least some variation of it, e.g. 'Don Wesley', courtesy of _This Week in Wizardry_)

e. Action figures (bloody creepy, they are)

But in addition to all that, everyone wants to hear "your story", even if you don't feel like telling it. Life isn't fair (and neither, incidentally, is playing hide-and-go-seek with Harry Potter—but that's a story for another time.)

Here are some basic guidelines for publicity/interview procedure.

_**Don't**_ tell your interviewer he has a _very nearly_ convincing toupee—you might think that's a compliment, but chances are, he won't.

_**Do**_ try your best not to curse excessively (and I do mean in the "oh god damn it all, my shitty robe has got a bloody tear in it" kind, not the psychopathic, "I squish kittens for fun" kind.)

_**Don't **_use sarcasm; they won't get it, and nothing's more awkward than the silence that follows, "How did we disguise ourselves? Drag, mostly. Harriet, Herman, and Rhonda. Harry and I plan to stick with it, actually. Skirts really are quite refreshing."

_**Do **_adhere to acceptable social conduct (i.e. shake hands instead of head-butting)

Basically, don't make an arse of yourself; there are enough gormless gits in the world without you joining their ranks.

It is possible to avoid these awkward encounters entirely, but doing so requires quick thinking, precision, and most of all: stealth.

_Stealth? Is that what you call hiding behind a nine-year-old to dodge Skeeter?_

I didn't have a lot to work with. It was the best I could do at the time.

_Ron, he was about two feet shorter than you._

That would explain why she spotted me so quickly. You've got it easy; all you have to do is whip out your—

_Ron…_

Erm—intuition?

_**Smooth, Ron. "Quick thinking, precision, and stealth"—you sure showed us.**_

Oh can it, the both of you.

The above is a perfect example of one of the drawbacks of being a sidekick: no respect, none at all.

_But you get great dental._

Fair point.

* * *

_A/N: I think I'll go back and edit this later; it's still a bit... rough. But I wanted to get it out to you all ASAP. _

_Reviews are better than Ron in drag.  
_


	12. Lesson 8, part two

A/N: I suck. Yes, I know. On the bright side: because I feel so bad the shortness of this chapter (sorry!) and how long the wait was for it, I promise that the next one will be 2,000 words MINIMUM. Seriously. I won't be able to post it until maybe next week because I have a major project to do this week, along with my driver's test. I love you all, thanks for sticking with me! Now, on to the penultimate (gasp!) chapter!

* * *

**Lesson Eight: Know Thy Press (Part II)**

* * *

So there I am, minding my own damn business, pretending to read the _Prophet_ while really just checking out Hermione's new blouse (it's fantastically strappy; Ginny must've had a hand in that), when Harry, the world-saving tosser, once again decides to make my life more complicated.

"_Modern Magic _owled. They want an interview with you next Wednesday," he says off-handedly, as if he hasn't just completely ruined my morning. He tosses the letter next to the platter of toast. Hermione quickly snatches it up and scans it faster than any human has a right to.

"Pardon?" I ask politely when Harry fails to shout 'got you!' or 'just kidding!' or something else he would never actually yell in real life.

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," I cut him off quickly. "But why'd they want to interview me? I mean, you're the Boy-Who-Insists-On-Staying-Alive and all that rubbish."

He shrugs. "Search me. Merlin knows you're not very interesting."

I flip him off good-naturedly. "Next Wednesday, you say?"

"Yeah, two o'clock at the Leaky Cauldron."

Over the past seven years, I've learned how to deal with a crisis situation. Step one: look for possible ways out (to run as far away as possible).

"Oi, Hermione. Want to go out for a bite next Tuesday? I hear Sweden's lovely this time of year… all those reindeer and dancing queens and whatnot."

I think I do a marvelous job of keeping the desperation out of my voice.

"I am not bailing you out of your interview, Ron."

No dice.

Step two: analyze your options.

I turn to Harry. "Is there any way I could—"

"No."

That's awfully presumptuous of him. For all he knows, I could've been asking him to pass the coffee. I mean, I wasn't, and he was right, but still—where is the trust?

I am still recovering from my last interview (an intensive piece for the _Prophet_). That time, though, I had my mates suffering with me as that chap with the peculiar nose hairs asked us rubbish questions like "What happened to the dragon you stole?" (We're training him for the circus); "What are your responses to the claims regarding Mr. Potter's role in Dumbledore's demise?" (Are you all out of your bloody minds?); and "Coke or Pepsi?" (I don't speak Muggle).

Step three: find someone to blame for your troubles (ineffective, but it always makes me feel better.)

"I was reading the paper," I inform Harry. "Couldn't you have bothered me at another time?"

He eyes the _Prophet_ with a skeptical eye. "Sorry, mate. I hadn't meant to tear you away from"—he squinted at the headline—"'Belts and Bags for the Working Witch'."

_What?_ I examine my paper roughly. Sure enough, a picture of a witch modeling some sort of handbag is plastered next to the article I was reading on the break up of the Weird Sisters—not that he'll believe that. I resurface after a few seconds of shock, my face no doubt an attractive shade of crimson (I hope Hermione likes tomatoes). Harry's smirking at me in an irritating way.

"I hate you."

He nods. "I know."

TRANSCRIPT OF THE SHORTEST INTERVIEW IN WIZARDING HISTORY, AS RECORDED BY R. WEASLEY:

Interviewer: In your own words, Ronnie—can I call you Ronnie?

What Ron Thought: _Only if I can call you Love Bucket, darling. _No_, you cannot call me _Ronnie_._

What Ron Said: I—

Psycho Bird: Wonderful [creepy I-like-to-eat-small-children smile] It's so much more… _personal_ this way, don't you think, Ronnie?

What Ron Thought: _Not really. Anyone I feel personal with would no sooner call me Ronnie than they would give me a pair of velour trousers._

What Ron Said: Well—

Stupid Bint: Back to the question, at what moment during your journey would you say you genuinely felt fear?

What Ron Thought: _'Genuinely?' Are you implying we were faking it? Who the hell hired you?_

What Ron Wanted to Say: I would have to say I felt pretty damn scared when I realized that Hermione had forgotten her razor.

What Ron Really Said: Basically all the bloody time. It's not like hunting Horcruxes is exactly a holiday in the bloody Mediterranean.

Former Boyfriend Stalker: Such emotion! It's fabulous! Tell me, Ronnie, would you say that your illicit romance with Mr. Potter at all distracted the Boy-Who-Lived from his goal?

Ron exits, because some people just aren't worth the energy.

* * *

Reviews are better than Dobby's socks.


	13. A Conclusion, of sorts

A/N: Well laddies and gentlewomen, this is it. The Final Chapter. 2000+ words, as promised. I have a deliciously long A/N at the end, and I'd appreciate it if you read it. For now, on with the show!

* * *

**Epilogue: In Which Ron Spews a lot of Waffle (no, not literally)**

* * *

Well there you have it. In ink. With a small tea stain on page 57, but you can hardly see it. I'm just as surprised as you are.

If you think you might be dreaming, trying whacking yourself in the head with this book. If that hurt: congratulations. If it didn't: you have an astonishingly high tolerance for pain. You should get that checked out.

A few said it couldn't be done... Alright, a hell of a lot of people said it couldn't be done: my entire immediate family, closest friends, Prof. McGonagall, anyone who was at the Leaky that last Friday, to name a few. Now, in the light of it _being_ done, I would like to take a moment to shove it in their faces—I mean, to gloat—erm, celebrate…

HA! HA HA HA! HA-BLOODY-HA!

For the love of Godric's unwashed socks, not the Dance of Victory...

_**The what?**_

You'll see…

_**Why've you ducked behind Harry? Oh. Oh my...  
**_

…

_**For Merlin's sake, Harry! I save you from the Devil's Snare and **_**this****_ is how you repay me?_**

_Sorry, Hermione, but there's just not enough of me for the two of you to hide behind. Besides, that was _seven_ years ago - shouldn't you be over that by now?_

…

_**That's enough pelvic thrusts for one day, I think.**_

You know you love it.

Hang on a mo', one more… HA!

That was incredibly satisfying. And Bill? You owe me five galleons.

While we are still on the subject of me being mind-fuckingly fantastic, I would like to take the time to thank the lovely Luna Lovegood, the only person who thought I could do this, the sole fan in my stands, the only soul with enough courage to say _"Go, Ron. Go!"_

What she actually did was give me a charm to ward off Wrackspurts, but I've learned not to be picky.

When you close this book—_not yet_, you overeager hippogriffs—you will have unofficially started the rest of your life. (Why 'unofficially'? Well I don't have the time nor will to make up any fancy certificate for you, so you'll have to do without. Nobody's stopping you from making your own.) You are now much better prepared, cleverer, and all around more tolerable than you were at the beginning. And if you're not, well that's your own bloody problem then, innit? (And your mum's, 'cos she's got to admit she's related to you and whatnot.)

Anyway, it's been a long haul, an odyssey of tragically shortened lunches, irritating mates, even more irritating sisters, and hand cramps that make the _Cruciatus_ feel like shiatsu.

…And you've had a fair bit of reading to do, I s'pose. For sticking with me, I hold you all in high esteem (provided you're not a lot of thrill-seeking third years—don't you twits have something better to do, like puberty?). Thanks for going through this entire thing, even if at times it made you want to cry, laugh, wail, shag me, or prod my person with a pointy stick. So yeah... thanks.

In this book I have laid bear my heart and soul—

_**You mean laid **_**bare**_**?**_

No, definitely laid bear. I'm that incredibly masculine.

…That was _not_ your cue to laugh, Potter. For all that's good and Dumbledore, you have a rotten sense of timing, haven't you.

_I—_

Rhetorical question, Potter. Stop putting a damper on my mojo, you two. I'm on a roll.

Merlin forbid anything happens to your mojo.

Like I was saying, in this book, I have completely and unabashedly exposed myself—not like _that_, you pervy gits—and presented to the world my inner thoughts, tactics, and a cauldron-full of bullshit like you wouldn't _believe_, on a shiny, leather-bound platter. I poured my sweat and blood into this endeavor. All right, maybe not _sweat_—it is the middle of January and bloody parky outside. I definitely got some blood on it though (from a particularly nasty paper cut, if you must ask).

In case it is not already blindingly obvious, I haven't really a clue what the hell I'm supposed to write in a conclusion. This is my first experience with one. I never usually get this far in books—if I were so inclined to read the type that would have one, that is. My theory's always been: why kill yourself getting there when you can just ask Hermione? _Ouch!_ That was a bloody _joke_, woman!

Please kindly remove the tentacles; they make writing rather difficult and awkward.

…

Thank you.

Now where was I?

Ah yes. Now, this might get a bit awkward—I am losing my conclusion virginity, after all.

_I can't imagine why you thought that might be awkward._

I'm holding up two fingers, mate. Guess which ones.

Anyway, Hermione just told me that a conclusion should wrap up the main ideas of the piece, "just like one in an essay, Ron". Now, that's some perfectly sound advice right there, 'cept for the fact that I've never written one of those, either—a conclusion, that is. Well, not really, anyway. You see, whenever I get to the end of my parchment, I typically just scrawl in some rubbish, with pertinent words (i.e. "unicorn blood", "Goblin Wars of 1537", "massive boils", etc.) written legibly (and a fair bit bigger than the rest), thereby giving the reader the impression that I know what I'm talking about and, hopefully, tricking them into thinking that the random ink scratches actually contain some stray bits of intellectual thought.

I've yet to have professor fall for this, but I still think it's a stand-up strategy.

So, I guess I'll just use this bit to review the stuff you've just learned. Honestly, you could've probably skipped right to this bit. Joke's on you!

Just remember: keep your head on in a crisis (preferably attached to your neck, but sometimes it pays not to be too choosy); be your charming and funny self (or at least fake it); and most importantly, try to keep yourself alive, 'cos if you snuff it, you're not much use to anyone (unless, of course, you save the hero's—AKA, your best mate's—life by taking a spell for him. That'd be pretty damn heroic. Girls dig martyrs… Too bad you'd be too dead to enjoy the perks.)

You really ought to write all this down, just in case you need a reminder. A list or something. I wouldn't recommend whipping it out whenever you get in a tight spot, of course; that would distracting and you could end up tripping yourself. Then you'd have to deal with the possibility of imminent death and not even have your dignity to ease you into it.

For some extra practice, Hermione has been generous enough to offer to write up some sample scenarios for you.

_**When did I do that?**_

Just go with it please.

_No one can tell you're whispering when it's written down, mate._

_**Situation One: You're forced to abandon your hideout and seek shelter in the forest.**_

(Well that's original—sorry, sorry!)

In this case, I'd highly recommend a tent; an invisibility cloak (preferably a really famous-slash-mythical one from folk lore, imbibed with supernatural powers, if you can swing it); a Sneakoscope; a really good handbag (honestly, never underestimate the power of a good handbag). The Sword of Gryffindor might help, too, but that's highly individual.

_**Situation Two: You're trapped in a narrow corridor, with both ways blocked by Death Eaters.**_

Definitely have on hand a wand; reflexes; and Hermione.

_**Why Hermione?**_

It's bleeding weird when you talk about yourself in the third person, you know.

_**Just answer the question, Ron.**_

Because Hermione—I mean, you—solves everything! You're like _Spellotape_! Not to say that you're clingy or anything, 'cos you're not… Actually, maybe Spellotape's the wrong herbivore—I mean, metaphor… Oh, I've got it: you're like _Reparo_! That's an easy spell… not saying that you're easy of course! You're definitely not easy! Just the opposite, actually… Not that that's a bad thing…

Merlin, Ron, you charmer. Laying it on a bit thick, you reckon?

Fuck off.

_**Situation Three: You wake up alone on a beach. On the edge of the sand, you can see the beginnings of a lush jungle. You haven't got a wand on you, so Apparation is impossible. Without warning, a large mob of scantily clad, well-muscled men emerge out of the verdant forest. They charge towards you.  
**_

Well in this case—HERMIONE!

Is that what all of your escapades are like? If so, you've _got_ to bring me along next time.

_**Sadly not, Ginny. Ron? Any words of wisdom you're burning to share? **_

Argh! The both of you!

Like I said in the beginning, all that time ago: sidekicking's not all it's cracked up to be. Nor is having a sister, for that matter. But after reading this book, you are well on your way to achieving a fulfilling and appropriately macho career. Or, if you're reading this for kicks: a rewarding and enlightening Saturday afternoon.

So, erm, with any luck you won't get yourselves offed (that reminds me: please kindly fill out the waivers attached in the last pages of this book, which release Mr Ron B. Weasley from any legal responsibility for your sorry arses.)

I guess this is goodbye, then. Don't take this the wrong way—it's not you; it's me. And my absurdly short attention span. And elevenses. (I quite fancy a nice cuppa, me. Writing is bloody exhausting.) And Hermione's new shorts.

* * *

**Praise (of sorts) for So You're a Masochist: the Art of Sidekicking, by Ronald B. Weasley:**

_"I cannot deny that this came as a surprise. If only you had put forth such effort into your schoolwork, Weasley…"_ – Minerva McGonagall

_"I foresaw this" _– Sibyl Trelawney

_"I owe you nothing, Ron"_ – Bill Weasley

_"__You're seriously out of your tree, mate.__ Bill owes me ten sickles"_ – Charlie Weasley

_"… Nor you, Charlie"_ – Bill Weasley

"_I fervently deny any relation to you_" - Percy Weasley

_"Mr Weasley has landed himself among the ranks of Shakespeare and Merlin himself. An absolutely spiffing work. A brilliant piece of literature, very rich in meaning and quality and all that tosh. Someone ought to have a national holiday named for this man__"_ – Don Leasey

_"Good job, Ron. I'm proud of you. Seriously. Yes, seriously, now stop interrupting! I don't think you're supposed to write book reviews for yourself, though"_ – Hermione Granger

_"I haven't a clue what you're talking about, Hermione. This Don Leasey fellow sounds like a right intelligent, thoughtful chap. I'd quite like to meet him. He's probably insanely attractive (not that I'm into that sort of thing). Absurd accusations..."_ – The Author

_"__You're something else, mate, you really are… Can we get back to our chess game, now? It's only been postponed about two weeks now__"_ – Harry Potter

_"I cannot believe someone's actually going to publish this. Love you. (They better not put me down as Ginevra; if they do I swear I'll…)"_ – Ginevra Weasley

_"What the hell am I writing? Who are you people? [The rest of this review has been omitted for excessive use of foul language and the word 'parsnip']"_ – Exceptionally hairy and shit-faced patron of the Leaky Cauldron

_"I hope you remembered to decontaminate your quill like I told you… Some marmalade should do the trick, with a dash of oregano, for seasoning. It's okay if you didn't, though; the purple wears off after a while…"_ – Luna Lovegood (_The Quibbler_, starred review)

_"The best read I've had since I found your journal"_ – George Weasley

* * *

Now, in the immortal words of my mother when she drops me off at King's Cross: "Have a good year! And good luck, dear. I hope you packed extra socks."

That was lovely, Ron.

Haven't you lot got anything better to do?

_Honestly? No, not really._

Oh for the love of—

Are we still going? What the hell are you still doing here? You can close the book now. Quit loitering.

The end.

* * *

A/N: And there you have it! Almost a year of writing (-cringes- sorry for some of those hugely long waits, everyone... but it was worth it, right?) come to an end. I'd like to thank everyone who wrote a review (especially those committed fans who fed my review-whoredom every single chapter). And another thanks to you anonymous reviewers, whom I have for some reason neglected to give a shout-out to until now. I love you all. To all of you who gave this fic a favorite or an alert: you rock Dumbledore's woolen socks. I had oodles of fun writing this, even on days when inspiration seemed as procurable as a snow cone in the Sahara. Writing as Ron was a deep, poignant, and fulfilling exper–Who the hell am I kidding? I got to swear and tell perverted jokes and had a blast doing it XD Keep on the lookout for new stuff from your truly!

Last chance (not really, but it's more dramatic that way) to leave a review and tell me how mind-blowing/wonderful/applesauce this chapter is, and the major effect it had on your life. I'd love it if I could get this to 260. Please? :)

_UPDATE (8/16/10): Thank you everyone for helping me reach 260+ reviews (maybe 300 now...?)! You're all fabulous. I've just changed a bit of the 'praise' section, having finally located the document with the original version of it I thought I'd lost (no major changes, but a few extra chuckles here and there). Cheers ;)_


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